


Then we came to an end

by Tereshkova (EarthboundCosmonaut)



Series: Occasional flashes of competence [10]
Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Blackmail, Gen, Paranoia, Workplace Rivalry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-26
Updated: 2018-10-01
Packaged: 2019-05-14 00:30:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 33,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14759210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EarthboundCosmonaut/pseuds/Tereshkova
Summary: That fucking ungrateful shit! He’s been busting his balls for Tom for years because, despite his many and glaring inadequacies, he’s the least worst leadership prospect the Party has. And in return the traitorous bastard is bringing back that rat Fleming in the deluded belief that anyone could do a better job than Malcolm has at stopping this fucking useless Government from eating itself alive.“Judas!” he screams, drawing a small measure of satisfaction from the sound his mug makes as it shatters against the wood panelling. A trail of brackish coffee drips down the antique oak. Irreplaceable, two hundred year-old panelling. He couldn’t give a shit.In which Malcolm and Nicola struggle to cling on to their jobs and their sanity. The last installment in the Occasional flashes of competence series.





	1. Coming apart at the seams

**Author's Note:**

> This story will make more sense if you've read the last few installments in the series. It concludes an arc that began in earnest with And on the seventh day, he rested.
> 
> The title is stolen from Joshua Ferris' novel of the same name. I can't recommend it highly enough.

Fucking Tom doesn’t have the guts to tell Malcolm himself: he sends Clare Ballentine to do it. Clare with her gambling debts and her ginger hair and her fucking hideous beige suit. Clare Ballentine who he could crucify with one carefully placed phone call. She sits across from him and leans in like an HR officer – all false sincerity and an overinflated sense of her own importance. “Tom’s been concerned about you recently, Malcolm. You’ve got too much on – he’s worried that you’re getting burnt out.”

“Aye, well Tom should spend less time worryin’ about me and more about his catastrophic approval ratings,” he tells her, lobbing a satsuma skin into the waste paper basket. “If he carries on alienatin’ voters the way he has been, fuckin’ JB'll be gettin’ a summons to Buckingham Palace.”

Clare, who has already sabotaged her own promising career beyond the point of salvage and so has very little to lose, smiles condescendingly. “I know that, Malcolm, and Tom knows it. He appreciates how much you are doing to keep the train on the tracks. We all know how hard you’re working, but it’s too much for one person, don’t you think?”

Malcolm leans back in his chair, waving a nonchalant hand in the air. “Aye it’s a shame yeh can’t clone me – imagine how much more efficient this Party would be if there was an army of Malcolm Tuckers running around. You lot might actually get something done for once instead of pissin’ on bush fires the whole time. But sadly there’s only one of me, so I’ll have the keep working myself like fuckin’ Ron Jeremy’s cock to keep Tom’s flabby Presbytarian arse in the PM’s seat.”

“But what if you could have some help?” Clare asks. “Someone to take the mundane stuff off your desk so you can focus on the important things?”

“Where are yeh goin’ teh find someone who can be trusted not to step on a fuckin' landmine? The only person who’s halfway competent is Jamie, and he fuckin’ defected to the nutters the first chance he got.”

“What about someone who’s done the job before?”

“Like who?!” he demands in exasperation, banging the arms of his chair for emphasis. “The only other person who’s done this job is that gutless weasel Fleming, and yeh’ll recall that I was the one who had to pull the plug on his fuckin’ life support.”

Clare doesn’t reply, except to raise her eyebrow pointedly.

He jerks upright in his chair. “Yeh cannot be fuckin’ serious!”

Clare’s expression remains infuriatingly neutral. “He’s done the job: he knows the people, he knows the Party – he’s the obvious choice.”

“I’d rather have Glenn Cullen’s retarded son – at least he does what he’s fuckin’ told. That twat’s like Midas except that everything he touches turns to shit, not gold!”

To give Clare credit, she doesn’t flinch as the volume of his voice rises from loud to storm force and flecks of spit fly across the desk. “Julius has already spoken to Steve. He’s got a few things to take care of, and then he’ll be starting next week.”

“Over my dead body!”

“This is not a criticism of you, Malcolm,” she assures him, and he just knows that she and Tom have spent hours rehearsing this conversation. “You’re doing a great job. It’s just bringing in a second pair of hands. A fresh pair of eyes and a new approach never hurts, does it? It might help identify opportunities that we’re all too much in the thick of it to have noticed.”

He throws his hands up with a groan of frustration. “There _are_ no fuckin’ opportunities! Tom’s been shot out of a canon and is hurtling towards a fuckin’ wall of fire. We ran out of opportunities _months_ ago - it’s about damage control now. And I’m the one who knows where the unexploded bombs and the skeletons and the fuckin’ booby traps are. If yeh let that twat start fumblin’ round he’ll just blow us all to fuck.”

If images of corpses and battlefields perturb Clare she doesn’t show it. “He’ll be reporting to Julius – he has a few projects he needs Steve’s help with. Your paths don’t even have to cross if you don’t want them to.”

“If _I_ don’t want them to? That little worm'll piss hisself if he’s in the same buildin’ as me.”

“Steve’s assured us that he’s willing to put the past behind him and focus on the task at hand.”

“Aye, well that’s good because everyone knows it was Tom who wanted him out. He just sent me to do his dirty work because he was too much of a coward to do it himself. Just like he’s sent yeh to tell me fuckin’ Flemin’s been reanimated.”

Clare smiles blandly. “There’s no conspiracy here Malcolm. We all want what’s in the best interests of the Party – and the country. Keep that in mind and we’ll all rub along together just fine.”

“Tom wants whatever’ll keep him clingin’ onto the cliff face his career’s about to fall off for another five minutes. Bring Steve Flemin’ in here and he’ll cause a fuckin’ rock slide!”

“Why don’t you sleep on it,” she says, rising from her chair and walking towards the door. “Once you’ve had some time to reflect you might feel differently.”

“I will fuckin’ _not,_ darlin’!” he yells behind her.

Presumably Clare picked seven o’clock at night to have this conversation so that there would be fewer people in Number Ten to hear him swear and yell and hurl objects at his office wall. _That fucking ungrateful shit_! He’s been busting his balls for Tom for years because, despite his many and glaring inadequacies, he’s the least worst leadership prospect the Party has. And in return the traitorous bastard is bringing back that rat Fleming in the deluded belief that anyone could do a better job than Malcolm has at stopping this fucking useless Government from eating itself alive.

“Judas!” he screams, drawing a small measure of satisfaction from the sound his mug makes as it shatters against the wood panelling. A trail of brackish coffee drips down the antique oak. Irreplaceable, two hundred year-old panelling. He couldn’t give a shit.

Eventually there’s nothing breakable left in his office except the tantalus left by a previous occupant. Having worked off the white heat of his rage, he slumps onto his sofa and slurps whisky straight from the decanter. It’s old and stale and age has distilled it to the point that the fumes alone could cause cirrhosis of the liver, but that suits his mood just fine. He kicks his shoes off, swings his legs up onto the coffee table and takes another gulp.

* * *

She is pinned down by the weight of James’ body. His right arm presses against her collar bone with bruising force, his hand gripping her hair painfully. She can hardly breathe, let alone move.

“After everything I’ve done for you – everything I put up with from you – this is how you fucking repay me. You go running to that scrawny Scottish bastard.”

He moves his mouth next to her ear, his voice a harsh whisper. The smell of spirits and sweat and sex scorches her nostrils. “How does it work – do you get down on your knees in his office and suck him off? Do you let him fuck you over a desk? Is that how you’re still managing to cling onto this job? But then you probably beg for it, don't you? You’ve always been a desperate, needy little whore.”

“James,” she manages to gasp out, working her hands under his shoulders and trying to push him away.

“Shh,” he hisses, clamping his hand over her mouth. “You’ve done enough talking.” He’s fumbling around with his other hand. She can’t work out what he’s doing until she hears a zip and feels his erection pressing against her thigh.

Adrenaline shoots through her like ice water. She twists and bucks, desperately trying to throw him off, but it has almost no impact. He’s too heavy. Too solid and muscular. James’ response to her struggling is to pull her thigh around his hip and thrust into her with a grunt. It tears and burns and _hurts_. The hand over her mouth presses harder to muffle her scream. She pushes and kicks and bangs her fists against his arms but it’s hopeless.

“You belong to me,” he hisses into her ear as he sets up a brutal rhythm. He sinks his teeth into her shoulder and bites down so hard that she smells the metallic tang of blood. Her blood. The pain is almost as bad as the pain between her legs. Even as she groans in agony a small detached part of her mind thinks _this cannot happen_. _This cannot be happening_.

Suddenly the weight of him is gone. She scrambles to get away, landing on the ground with a heavy thud and scrabbling across the floor. Her shoulder finds the wall and she huddles against it, pressing herself into the corner. She gulps air into oxygen starved lungs. She has to pull herself together. She has to get away. She glances around, looking for James – looking for a way out.

The room is dark. It shouldn’t be dark. She holds her breath, listening for the rustle of movement or his breathing, but there’s nothing except her own heart hammering in her ears. Not even the noise of traffic outside the window or children playing in another part of the house. It’s middle-of-the-night quiet.

She leans her head back against the wall, drawing a deep, steadying breath. _It’s not real_. She presses her palms against the carpet, grounding herself in the sensation of the wiry texture of the fibres. _It’s not real_. She’s had another dream – or flashback – is that what they are? They certainly don’t feel like dreams when she's having them: it feels as though it's happening all over again. _But it’s not real_.

She glances at the dim glow of the bedside clock. It’s two am. When she’s calmed down she might be able to fall back to sleep for a few hours, but not in this room – not in that bed.

She goes downstairs to make herself a cup of herbal tea, and curls up on the sofa to drink it. In the last few days she’s realised the absurdity of her initial reaction. She'd seriously intended to forgive James - as though the fact that he'd been big enough to apologise could somehow make it all right. What had she been _thinking_? Had she really become so beaten down by their messy, dysfunctional marriage? If she hadn't found Josh playing with his cocaine James would still be here - she'd be coming round from a flashback to find him lying in the bed next to her. It doesn't bear thinking about.

She’s always believed that mothers should be role models for their daughters – to demonstrate to them that modern women can be strong and independent. But what kind of example has she been setting for Katie, Ella and Tilly? And what toxic messages has Josh been getting about masculinity? She’d thought she’d been keeping the family together, but all this time she's just been damaging her children.

Her phone buzzes with an incoming call from James. He still calls several times a day, bombards her with text messages, and has turned up unannounced on the doorstep a couple of times. His tone veers between contrite, reasonable and abusive depending on his mood and – she suspects – how much he’s been drinking. Or taking.

She ignores the call. He can’t seriously expect her to answer the phone at this time of night. Under normal circumstances she’d be asleep. Unless – she jumps to her feet, slopping hot tea over her stomach – unless he’s outside and he can see the living room light on. _Christ_. What should she do? She can’t just turn the light off – then he’d _know_ she’s awake.

She sets her mug down on the coffee table and crosses to the wall next to the window, twitching the curtain aside just enough to look out. The street lamps throw bright pools of light onto the pavement. She peers into the shadows between, searching for the outline of a figure standing against the hedge or behind a tree. She can’t see anything and, at six foot three, James is hard to miss. The ringing stops and a moment later she hears the buzz of a voicemail alert. Perhaps she’s being paranoid. He’s probably just calling from his hotel room, or on the way back from a night out – looking to vent more of his feelings and not really caring whether she picks up or whether he rants at her voicemail until the recording cuts out.

She’s about to let the curtain fall back into place when she sees the driver’s door of a car parked across the road open. She’s been looking out of the window for several minutes so it hasn’t just arrived – he must have been sitting there watching.  

She drops the curtain and lurches back, pressing her hand over her mouth to stifle the scream that is working its way up her chest. _He’s here. Fuck_. He’s here and God only knows what he can want at three o’clock in the morning. He’s here and he’s seen her.

There’s a knock at the front door – soft but persistent. She jumps and scurries to the living room doorway, huddling just inside it so that she can’t be seen through the front door panel. What’s she going to do? He knows she’s awake, and that she’s been ignoring his calls - he must be annoyed. She doesn’t want to let him in, but how can she make him go away? Call the Police and tell them that her husband’s trying to get into the house that he jointly owns? Even if she could explain it without coming across like a garbled fool, it would be all over the papers within hours.

“Mrs Murray?”

She starts at the voice, but it’s not what she’s expecting – it’s not James.

“Mrs Murray?” he says again, and she detects the faint roundedness of a Scottish accent. “It’s Douggie Ross.”

Douggie, one of Malcolm’s Caledonian mafia. She’d weep in relief if she didn’t feel like such an idiot. She goes to open the door. Douggie stands on the step, his car keys dangling from his hand. She realises how ridiculous it is that she could have thought he might be James. He’s five foot ten at most and his bald head gleams in the light of the hall. Even his clothes – a tatty leather jacket over a Celtic football shirt – are the kind of thing that James wouldn’t be seen dead in.

“Hello Douggie,” she says, trying to twist her expression into a smile. She’s going for light hearted, but even to her own ears her voice sounds strained and faintly hysterical.

“Sorry the disturb yeh so late. Ah saw yeh were still up an’ though’ ah’d check everythin’s okay.”

He looks her up and down. She can imagine what he sees: wild bed hair, faded bruises, the wet stain on her top, the wide-eyed panic. Not an inch the collected senior politician she’s supposed to be. She pats down her hair, trying to tame some of the frizz. “I’m fine. I just – I couldn’t sleep so I got up to make myself some tea, and then I thought there might be something outside, and I…” she trails off, not sure where she’s going with the explanation.

Douggie nods but says nothing.

“Do you – have you been there all night?” she asks, not sure whether she feels alarmed or comforted by the idea.

“Nah, one of us drives by every hour or so. When ah saw the downstairs light on ah thought ah’d stop an’ watch for a few minutes. Then ah saw yeh lookin’ out and ah thought ah’d better check yer all righ’.”

“That’s – that’s very kind. Everything’s fine. I’m just a bit jumpy.”

Douggie nods again and reaches into his pocket, withdrawing a battered card. “Here’s mah number. Gi’us a call if yeh need anythin’. One of us can get teh yeh in a few minutes – doesnae matter wha’ time o’ day.”

She glances at the card as she takes it. _Douglas Ross ABI_. He’s a private investigator. Given how much dirt Malcolm has on everyone, it makes sense she supposes. But - what if he's had them investigating _her_? What if he’s found out about that time when she was a student when she broke the wing mirror of a car walking home drunk? Or the occasion when, in a haze of sleep deprivation, she had walked out of Boots with a tin of baby formula that she'd forgotten to pay for? Are these the kind of things MPs have to stand down for? Is he holding them in reserve to dangle over her the next time he needs to haul her into line over something? She clamps down on this train of thought. She’s being paranoid, she knows she is - hours of expensive CBT have taught her to recognise it. She needs to get a grip.

“Thank you, Douggie.”

He nods curtly – it seems to be the only physical gesture he knows. “Al’righ’ then. Have a good nigh’.”

“Goodbye.” He’s already walking back to his car as she speaks, hands shoved in his pockets.

Nicola shuts the door quietly behind him, turning the lock and sliding the chain into place. She breathes out slowly and takes a deep breathe in. _It’s fine. Everything’s fine_. She does feel a bit better actually. Better enough to notice the uncomfortable way that her damp pyjamas are sticking to her skin. She places Douggie’s card in the key bowl on the hall table and goes to change.


	2. The cavalry charge

Malcolm’s pretty sure Nicola doesn’t know that Back on Track is an initiative that Ollie stole from Ben Swain. Not that she’s fond of Ben: kicking him off her staff of junior ministers was one of the only decisive moves she made when she was appointed to DoSAC. Even she recognised that Ben’s poisonous combination of laziness and two-faced disloyalty is dangerous to have around. It’s just that she still hasn’t figured out that people are willing to screw others over to advance their own careers – especially in politics. 

Unfortunately, Back on Track is probably the only decent idea that Ben has had in his life: let prisoners out on day release, give them catering training and find them restaurant jobs when they get parole. In theory it funds itself through employment taxes and reduction in reoffending, and it’s exactly the kind of touchy feely story the Government needs at the moment. Which is why Ben is not willing to let it go without causing as much disruption as possible, and thus why Malcolm has been forced to attend the launch party instead of doing something productive with his evening. Like assassinating Dan Miller. Or shoving a red hot poker up Steve Fleming’s arse. 

The only saving grace is that the event has been catered by one of the restaurants that the scheme supports. The food is surprisingly good, and Ben is currently gorging himself at the buffet rather than causing trouble. Malcolm estimates that it will keep him busy for at least another 45 minutes. Longer if his suspicion about Ben’s eating habits is correct and he brings it all back up in the gents then comes back for round two.  

The formal bit of the event is over. Nicola has fumbled her way through her speech, answered questions about the roll out of the scheme and its projected payback period, and had her photograph taken sampling canapés in the kitchen while making conversation with armed robbers. Despite his fears, this brought out the empathetic constituency MP in her rather than the flustered train wreck – possibly because living with her reprobate husband for twenty years has accustomed her to talking with psychopaths.  

Now all but the hardcore alcoholics among the hacks have departed and DoSAC is letting its collective hair down. Someone has ordered a line of Jager Bombs and a group of junior paperclip-jockeys are taking it in turns to chug them while being cheered on by their mates. One of the spads has commandeered the turntable and a bunch of be-suited middle-aged men are dad-dancing to eighties rock anthems. Ollie Reader seems to be getting over his horse-shagging ex-girlfriend by massaging an intern’s tonsils with his tongue. 

Malcolm elbows his way to the bar, causing a project officer from the implementation unit to spill a Jager Bomb down the front of his shiny Next suit, and orders a pint. He downs half of it in one gulp and then sips the rest at a more respectable pace, scanning the function room for signs of trouble. Ben Swain is still chowing down on vol au vents, he is pleased to note. However Nicola is conspicuous by her absence.  

Nicola’s been inconsistent recently – even moreso than usual. At work she alternates between vague, anxious and ferociously focused. According to his people the lights are regularly on in her house in the small hours of the morning and she shows up late most days, with the excuse that one of her progeny has to be practically sedated to be taken to school. Based on past form, Malcolm wouldn’t be surprised if Nicola is also having to dose herself up in order to leave the house. All in all, he’s not sure he wants her roaming round unsupervised for any length of time. He finishes his pint, orders another and goes in search of her. 

He spots Glenn hovering near the table holding press packs, making moon eyes and stilted conversation at Robyn Murdoch while she pointedly ignores him.  

“Hey, Rip Van Winkle,” Malcolm greets him, seizing him by the arm.

“What now?” sighs Glenn with the demeanour of a dog waiting to be kicked. Robyn takes the opportunity to flee. 

“Where’s the party girl?” 

“Who? Nicola?” 

“Well I don’t see fuckin’ Tara Palmer-Tomkinson anywhere, do you?” 

Glenn glances around. “I don’t know. She had a phone call she said she needed to take – that was about twenty minutes ago. Maybe she’s still outside.” 

“Right. You don’t let the Cookie Monster over there out of your sight,” he says, pointing at Ben. “If he tries anythin’, shove an apple in his mouth and get one of the convicts to put him on a spit. I’ll be back in ten minutes.” 

“Yes Malcolm,” Glenn says with a long-suffering sigh, and Malcom knows that the memory of his fist in Glenn’s face is enough to ensure that the old corpse does as he's asked.  

* * *

It doesn’t take long to find Nicola. He hears her before he sees her – the sound of her voice filters to him from the service corridor leading to the kitchen. 

“You can’t just keep showing up unannounced – especially when I’m at  _work_.” 

“If you’d answer my bloody calls I wouldn’t have to.” The plummy accent and booming tone is unmistakable. Her inbred oaf of husband has decided to gatecrash.   

Malcolm peers around the corner. They’re standing in the middle of the service corridor, blocking the passage the waiters use to carry food back and forth to the function room. Nicola’s made herself as big as she can – hands planted on hips and back straight. It still leaves her a foot and about eight stone down on James, but the assertiveness of her pose and the fact that she isn’t hyperventilating stops him from following his first instinct and intervening. 

“If I answered the phone every time you call I’d never get anything done. Besides, half the time you’re only ringing to shout at me.” 

James runs a hand through his hair. He’s wearing a suit, but his tie is loosened and his collar hangs open. He looks crumpled. “This is stressful for me Nicky. Do you think I like being locked out of my own home? Or having my children turned against me?” 

“I haven’t turned them against you. I don’t need to – you’ve done a good enough job of that by yourself.”  

“All I’m asking is that you let me take them out for one fucking day! What do you think I’m going to do – kidnap them?” 

“They don’t _want_  to see you, James. The night you left Katie actually  _asked_  me to divorce you. And Tilly locks herself in the bathroom when you come to the house.” The Murray children are evidently astute judges of character – a trait they certainly haven't inherited from Nicola. 

“They’re upset because you always get so bloody  _hysterical._  You’ve blown this whole situation completely out of proportion. I’m willing to overlook the fact that you aborted my  _child_. You could try being reasonable in return.” 

From where he’s standing he can’t see Nicola’s face, but he sees her shoulders stiffen at this comment. “I’m not even going to dignify that with a response.” She turns and begins to walk away, but Nicola’s never known when to make a discrete exit. She pauses, hesitates and then stalks back to James, jabbing a finger at him. “The fact that  _you_  think  _my_  reaction is out of proportion is the reason the kids don’t want to fucking see you!” 

James gives an exaggerated sigh. “Fine, fine, you’re still angry - I get it.” Malcolm wonders whether he’s really this dense or whether it’s an act he puts on so that he can get away with being a selfish, manipulative cunt. 

“I’ve already explained this James,” says Nicola with strained patience. “I’m not angry, I’ve just had enough. I don’t want to be married to you any more.” 

“Are you really willing to throw away the last twenty years? Do you really want the kids growing up in a broken home? With us constantly fighting over money and access? You’ve always said you’d do anything to avoid that.” 

He’s good, Malcolm acknowledges - he knows how to press Nicola’s buttons. He’s pleased to see Nicola stand her ground. 

“It doesn’t have to be acrimonious: plenty of people have amicable divorces. It might even be better for them – at least they won’t have to watch us arguing all the time.” 

“They’ll never see me at all if you get your way.” 

Nicola sighs. “I’m not trying to keep you from your children James, but you have to realise that the way you behave doesn’t go over their heads. You need to prove to them that they can trust you.” 

James throws his hands up in the air. “How can I get them to trust me if I can’t bloody see them?!” 

He can almost hear Nicola rolling her eyes. “Forcing them to spend the day with you against their will won’t help.” 

“What about Josh?” presses James. “ _He_  must be missing me, even if the rest of you are too busy painting your nails and doing each other’s hair. I’ll take him out for the day on Saturday - we can go to the rugby.” 

“It's up to him. Ask him and see what he says.”  

“When am I going to ask him? Shall I send him a message by bloody carrier pigeon? You’d probably have one of that Scottish twat’s henchmen shoot the fucking thing before it got within a hundred feet of the house.” He’s been advancing towards Nicola as he speaks, all anguished expression and impassioned voice. He can see her shoulders start to sag. 

“Fine, okay. Why don’t you come round tomorrow evening after dinner?” 

 _“_ _After_  dinner? So I’m not even welcome to eat a meal with my children in my own house now?” 

Nicola rubs her forehead. “James please, don’t make this any harder than it has to be.” 

“I’m trying to be  _reasonable_. How are we going to sort anything out if we don’t talk about it?” It’s clear that James’ idea of ‘sorting this out’ looks very different to Nicola’s.  

She jumps as the kitchen door bangs open and a waiter passes them bearing a tray of mini hot dogs. She glances over her shoulder, belatedly realising that they are in a public place where anyone could overhear. “Look, let’s not have this conversation now. We can talk about it when you come round tomorrow.” 

“Properly talk about it, as opposed to you just trying to get me out of the house as quickly as possible?” 

“Yes! Now would you please just go?” 

James nods, apparently satisfied. “Of course,” he says. His tone makes it clear that he is offended by the implication that he is ever anything but reasonable. “Enjoy your evening. I’ll see you for dinner tomorrow – about half six?” 

“Yes, fine,” says Nicola, clearly just wanting the discussion to be over. 

Malcolm steps back so that James doesn’t see him as he passes on his way out. When he looks back Nicola is sagged against the wall, her fingers absentmindedly rubbing the spot on her shoulder that he knows bears the imprint of James’ teeth. It’s evident that James is waging a war of attrition, and that Nicola is starting to get ground down. It’s time for another party to join the fight. 

* * *

A couple of days later, he pays James Murray a visit. It doesn’t surprise him that James has booked himself into an extremely expensive hotel. Nor that he finds him in the bar, sipping a beer and chatting up a younger woman. She’s attractive in a busty, blonde, synthetic kind of way - the type of woman that appeals to lecherous middle aged men. 

James looks up as Malcolm slides into their booth, his face setting into a hostile frown as he registers who it is. 

“Evening,” Malcolm greets him. He extends his hand to the young woman, who shakes it hesitantly. "Malcolm Tucker. Are you a girlfriend or an escort?" 

Her mouth hangs open, surprised into speechlessness. “What do you want?” demands James. 

“Just a wee chat.”  

“I don’t have anything to say to you.” 

“Tha’s fine, you can just listen. I’ve got plenty to say to you.” 

The blonde glances between the two of them. “Should I go?” 

James places a hand on her knee. “No, stay. Malcolm’s the one that’s going to go.” 

“Aye, well let me leave yeh with some readin’ material then.” Malcolm dumps the day’s edition of the Sun on the table. He’s thoughtfully opened it to the page with a photograph of Nicola sitting on a park bench, looking at the camera with a startled, anxious expression. The colour contrast has been manipulated to show up the bruises on her arms and throat to maximum effect. “Tha’s his wife,” he tells the young woman conversationally. 

Her brow creases as she reads. The article - written in language designed to be comprehensible to the average seven year old - is barely more than a caption to the photograph. Just enough to make insinuations without crossing the line into accusation: 

 _Cabinet Minister Nicola Murray was spotted looking upset in Waterlow Park, near her North London home, last week. Mrs Murray had bruises on her neck and arms. When we asked her, she refused to comment on how she got them. Nicky, 43, has been keeping a low profile since her husband James was snapped partying with prostitutes and snorting cocaine earlier this year. We wonder if things still aren't good in the Murray house._  

“It’s a bit unfair of them to bring up your drug use again, but at least they didn’t mention the bribery eh? I’ll leave yeh this too,” Malcolm continues, placing a manila file next to the newspaper. “It’s copies of some of the research I’ve been doing into the little tax evasion scheme you’ve got set up for your ‘consultancy fees’. The Party lawyers reckon you could get 12 – 18 months for tax fraud. Plus quite a bit more for assault and rape if Nic’la changed her mind about reportin’ yeh to the police.” 

The woman rises hastily to her feet. “I’m – I’ve got to go.” 

“Look, I’m sorry about this,” James says, reaching for her hand. “I’ll get rid of Malcolm then I’ll come and find you.” 

She jerks her hand out of his, shaking her head. “I don’t think so.” 

As she exits the bar, James turns to glare at Malcolm. “Why are you here?”  

“To discuss yer divorce.” 

“It’s a bit premature,” he says impatiently. “Nothing's been decided yet. Nicky'll come round - she just needs some time to calm down." 

"Yeh can't seriously expect her to take you back? Even she's not naïve enough to give you another chance." 

“I’ve known her for over twenty years, I think I know how her mind works. She can't cope on her own. She likes stability and security.” 

Malcolm snorts a humourless laugh. “Do yeh really think she feels secure around _you_  any more? Inmates in fuckin' Guantanamo Bay have more stability and security.” 

James’ eyes narrow. "She doesn't know you’re here, does she?” 

“No, she’s got enough to worry about already. Like her job. And explainin’ to your four children why Daddy’s such a cunt.” 

“What business is it of yours? You're a bloody spin doctor, not a social worker.” 

“Because I’m a deeply unpleasant human being,” Malcolm says, echoing James’ earlier words. “And nothing would give me more pleasure than seein’ yeh in jail being fucked in the arse by a bank robber from Plaistow.” 

“Why?” sneers James. “So you can have Nicky for yourself?” 

“Because for once I want to make sure that the good guy doesn’t get fucked over!”  

“If you think you’re the good guy—” 

“Nico’la’s the good guy, yeh retarded ape!” Malcolm all but yells, banging the table for emphasis. The elderly couple in the next booth glare at him and mutter disapprovingly to themselves.

“And what does that make you?” scoffs James. “The fairy godmother?” 

“No, I’m the big bad wolf. And if you don't stop playin' games I'm goin' to huff and fuckin' puff until yer livin' on the streets givin' blow jobs in exchange for fuckin' restaurant scraps." 

James glances down at the manila folder and then back up at Malcolm. “What are you proposing?” 

“A nice quick divorce. Nic’la gets the house and whatever financial settlement her lawyer thinks is reasonable. And in return I don’t show any of this-” he gestures to the folder of evidence “- to the police. And the papers don’t spend the next three months draggin’ yer name through the mud. And I'm talkin' Glastonbury portaloo malfunction levels of mud.” 

He narrows his eyes. “Not enough. I want all the originals – paper and electronic - and I want to know who gave you all this in the first place. And I want _you_ to stay away from my bloody family!” 

Malcolm shakes his head. “Yeh seem to be under the illusion that this is a negotiation. It's a fuckin' ultimatum!” 

“How do I know I can trust you?” 

“Yeh can't trust me. Which is why yeh’d better not test me. I've ruined people with far less to hide than you. Yeh won't be employable in a Bangladeshi sweat shop by the time I'm finished with you.” 

James pushes the folder back towards him and folds his arms. “No deal. You’re not the only one with powerful friends, and Nicky’s more likely to listen to me than she is to you. I’ll take my chances.” 

Malcolm shrugs and gathers up the folder. He hadn't expected James to give in straight away. “Fine. Here’s my card. Keep yer eye on the papers. If you change yer mind, give me a call.” 

“Don’t wait by the phone,” James tells him, hailing a cocktail waiter. 

As he's leaving the bar Malcolm fishes out his Blackberry and searches for Marianne Swift's number. 


	3. All publicity is good publicity

"Tilly please, I promise that nothing bad will happen to us while you’re at school.  It’s only for a few hours. Ella will come and collect you with Magda later. And I’ll ring you at lunchtime.”

Tilly shakes her head. “You can’t promise. You don’t _know_.”

“Nothing happened yesterday, did it? Or last week?”

“That doesn’t matter Mummy, it doesn’t mean it can’t happen today.”

Nicola rubs her forehead. Tears of frustration prick at her eyes. They’ve had exactly the same discussion every morning for weeks. The trouble is that Tilly’s line of argument is hard to contradict – especially as it mirrors the spiral of irrational anxiety that she spends half her life fighting off. Part of her wants to shout at Tilly to just pull herself together and go to school. A bigger part wishes she could take her to work with her so that the poor girl doesn’t spend the whole day on the verge of hysterics. Neither is a viable option.

She’s distracted from formulating a response by Katie yelling from the play room: "Oh my God Mum, you're on the Sidebar of Shame!"

“Katie, will you stop messing about on the computer!” she shouts back, her voice sounding more impatient than she intends. “Magda’s going to be here in five minutes and you promised you’d go with her to take Tilly and Josh to school!”

“No, I’m serious Mum! There’s a whole article about you. It’s got loads of pictures. Come and look.”

Oh Jesus. The Daily Mail – the paper that loves to take potshots at her. The paper that published that fucking article about James. What have they got hold of now? The Sidebar of Shame is full of photos of B list celebrities in bikinis – why is she on it? Perhaps – her blood runs cold at the thought – perhaps they’ve got their hands on photos of her in a swimming costume. But no, that can’t be it. Thanks to Malcolm they haven’t been anywhere warm enough to wear a swimming costume in over a year, and Magda’s the one who takes the children to the swimming pool. It must be a bitchy commentary on one of her outfits that the Mail has deemed too gaudy, or too mumsy, or too drab. Fucking Mail. She wishes she’d never met Swineface Swift.

“Mum, you should really look at this!” shouts Ella. “It’s amazing!”

She groans and clambers to her feet. “I’m coming.” Tilly trails after her, her anxiety momentarily banished by curiosity.

The girls are crowded around the iMac, scrolling through a worryingly long gallery of photos. “Let me see,” she says, reaching for the mouse.

Ella wheels her chair back so that Nicola can get closer to the screen. “I’ve never been so proud of you, Mum,” says Katie with apparently genuine admiration. If only she’d been impressed when Nicola was appointed to one of the most senior roles in HM Government.

She scans the article – if it can be dignified with such a title - with mounting disbelief. How have they even got hold of all these photos?

“Look, there’s a link to another article,” says Ella, pointing at the screen. Nicola clicks on the hyperlink.

“That’s me!” says Tilly excitedly. “I’m in the news!”

“And Josh,” adds Katie. “We should ring Granny.”

“We’re not ringing Granny about this.” Nicola closes the web page.

“Oh Mum!” complain Ella and Katie.

“Everyone go and get your shoes on,” she tells them tersely. “If you’re not ready to get in the car when Magda arrives I’ll ring Social Services and have you all put into care.” She walks through into the hall. “Josh! Stop playing and come and get ready for school!”

“Chill Mum,” says Ella, tugging on her Vans with a grin. “You’ve made it. You’re a proper celebrity now.”

* * *

**_The Daily Mail: Plucky Nicola carries on for kids’ sake_ **

_The Secretary of State for Social Affairs and Citizenship looked strained as she took a break from her ministerial duties to attend an assembly at her children’s school yesterday._

_Mother of four Nicola Murray (43) wore a charcoal grey Hobbs suit and black LK Bennett pumps to the ceremony at Gladstone Primary School in North London, where daughter Matilda (10) collected an award for helpfulness and son Josh (5) gave a spirited xylophone performance. Notably absent was Mrs Murray’s husband, James._

_The state of the Minister’s troubled marriage was exposed in February when details of her husband’s extravagant nights out at exclusive private members clubs emerged. Mr Murray, whose employer Albany plc earnt over £500m in profit from government contracts in 2009, was caught taking drugs and cavorting with prostitutes at the company's expense in an effort to win over prospective clients._

_Mrs Murray has not spoken publicly about her husband’s behaviour. It is believed that, following an attempt at reconciliation, Mr Murray is no longer living at the family home. The publication of photographs of a bruised Mrs Murray earlier this week have led to speculation that the couple may have had a violent argument._

_Determined not to be beaten by her personal problems, brave Mrs Murray has thrown herself into promoting her department’s Healthy Choices initiative. Self-confessed yoga buff Nicola has been leading lunchtime yoga sessions for staff at the so-called Superministry as part of the initiative. Turn to the Style section for our rundown of the sporty Minister’s top 10 yoga looks._

* * *

 “What’s this?” demands Nicola, throwing the Mail and a croissant on Malcolm’s desk.

He pounces on the croissant, grateful that she’s resumed her food drops. He’d drunk more than he intended to last night and his body is craving carbs and fat. “Some fuckin’ decent press coverage for a change.”

“For fuck’s sake Malcolm!” she says with a forcefulness that always makes him feel a little glimmer of pride in her. “I said no more journalists at my kids’ school!”

“I didn’t fuckin’ invite them,” he tells her around a mouthful of pastry. “Is tha’ coffee for me too?”

She dumps the cappuccino in front of him, foamy milk sloshing through the hole in the lid. “You’re the Director of Communications. It’s your job to know about this stuff and stop it being published.”

"Nic'la, Tom's in the throes of fuckin' political hari kiri. I don't give a shit about whether or not the Mail's runnin’ stories about your marriage. You should just be grateful that for once it's all fuckin' true."

“It’s not true.”

“Get yer head out of yer arse, Nic’la! Just because yeh don’t like it, doesn’t mean it’s not true.”

She glowers sullenly and changes tack. “What about this Style article? _Sporty Nicola’s top ten yoga looks_? It’s on their trashy clibckbait website – my kids found it when they were looking at pictures of One Direction. Is this really the kind of press coverage that you think is acceptable for female MPs? It’s the twenty first century, not the bloody nineteen fifties! It’s demeaning!”

She’s furious. It takes all his willpower not to laugh. “They’ve got ten photos of yeh in Lycra and they haven’t even mentioned yer cellulite. Take it as a fuckin’ win.”

Her brow creases. “Why are you letting this happen, Malcolm? What are you up to?”

Before he has a chance to answer, a voice at the door butts in “Now isn't that the eternal question?”

They both turn to see Steve Fleming standing in the doorway, his moustache bristling like an overfed rat. He hasn’t seen Steve in about…seven years. Since the day that he had terminated Steve’s job with extreme prejudice.

“What the fuck are you doin’ here?” Malcolm asks.

“Tom’s asked me to step in and give him a hand. He seems to think that you’re a bit overstretched. And frankly Malcolm, I can see what he means: you look rather tired.”

Malcolm flips him the bird. Steve ignores it and turns his attention to Nicola. “Nicola Murray! Haven’t you done well for yourself? I’m terribly sorry to hear about your troubles at home, but I have to say you look very well considering. Positively glowing.”

Steve grasps her by the shoulders, swooping in for a double cheek kiss, and Nicola cringes away from him. “Hello Steve,” she says when he releases her, wiping her cheek.

Steve smiles patronisingly. “You and I should catch up over coffee soon, but for now would you mind leaving Malcolm and I to have a little chat? The boys have business to discuss.”

He winks and Nicola grimaces. “Of course, I wouldn’t want to intrude. Enjoy your chat _boys._ ”

Steve grins as Nicola retreats. Malcolm envies her, but it’s not the done thing to storm out of your own office.

“She’s a little firecracker, isn’t she?” comments Steve as the door closes behind Nicola. “Once she's given that no good husband of hers the boot, the single men of Westminster had better watch out.”

Instead of dignifying this with a response, Malcolm imagines the imprint of Nicola’s heel on Steve’s forehead. It gives him the fortitude to ask “What do yeh want?”

“Just to make sure there’s no bad blood,” Steve tells him with saccharine insincerity. “Tom still has faith in you. He just feels you’re a little… _stretched_ at the moment. Not at the top of your game, as it were. I’m here to lighten your load.”

“I don’t feel threatened by yeh, if tha’s what yer gettin’ at,” Malcolm tells him flatly.

“Of course not. No need for that. I’ve already forgiven you for that business with my resignation.”

“Resignation,” snorts Malcolm. Resignation only in the sense that a letter of resignation had been involved: one that Malcolm had drafted and leaked before Steve had even had a chance to read it. Steve’s suggestion that he has forgiven and forgotten rings about as true as Tom’s Desert Island Discs performance. “Well if that’s all yeh wanted to let me know, I’ve go’ a lot to be goin’ on with.”

“Don’t let me stop you,” says Steve, smile stretching to its uncomfortable limit. “And don’t forget about our ten thirty with Tom. See you around, Malcolm.”

“Not if I see you first.”

When the door is shut Malcolm leans back in his chair, heaving a sigh. Jesus Christ, this is the last thing he needs.

* * *

Nicola’s sitting with her head on her desk, praying for the release of death, when her fantasies about eternal rest are interrupted by a nervous cough at her door. She looks up to see Terri hovering in the doorway. “Sorry to interrupt, Secretary of State…”

It’s clear from Terri’s demeanour that she’s about to drop a massive clusterbomb. “What now?” she asks wearily. 

“I uh, I’ve got your clippings. Well, not yours specifically – that is you’re not the main focus of all the articles, but you do figure in them and therefore you might have an interest in—”

“Just give me the file, Terri” she says, holding out her hand.

Terri scuttles forward, tentatively places the file in Nicola’s hand and scoots back to a safe distance. The file is worryingly thick – she must be in nearly every daily paper. She lifts the cover, reads the headline of the first cutting and slams the folder shut again. “I’d like a coffee. Not that piss from the coffee machine – a proper coffee from a coffee shop. And a biscotti. And a bottle of brandy. And 100 paracetamol.”

“I’m not sure you can buy paracetamol in packets of more than 16 any more,” says Terri. “I could get a pack of paracetamol and a pack of ibuprofen. And I’ve heard that pressing your fingers on your temples like this can also be quite effective for curing headach—”

“Piss off and get me a coffee!”

“And a bisc—”

“Now!”

“There’s no need to be rude about it,” Terri mutters, pulling the office door closed behind her. “Time of the month,” she overhears her say to Ollie and Glenn in a stage whisper through the definitely-not-soundproof glass. She wishes Terri wasn’t so expensive to get rid of – nothing would give her more pleasure than personally handing her a P45. Except possibly the summary execution of every journalist in the country.

Reluctantly, she opens the folder and begins to read through the day’s litany of shit.

* * *

**_The Times: Minister's husband among revellers in nightclub raid_ **

_The disgraced husband of Social Affairs and Citizenship Secretary Nicola Murray was among revellers detained by police during a raid on the El Carnicero nightclub in Soho in the early hours of Saturday morning. Police seized half a kilogram of cocaine, MDMA and ketamine from the club following a tip off by a member of the public._

_James Murray was one of 47 patrons held by police overnight following the search. He was later released without charge. Police have refused to comment on the results of a routine drugs screen carried out while he was in detention._

_This is not the first time Mr Murray has been linked to a drug-related incident. Earlier this year, photographs and video footage surfaced showing Mr Murray apparently taking cocaine on a night out. More recently, photographs of a bruised Mrs Murray have prompted speculation that the couple may have had a violent row. When asked, the Minister’s office declined to comment on this story._

* * *

**_The Guardian: It's time to stop turning a blind eye to what goes on behind closed doors_ **

_Recent speculation about Cabinet Minister Nicola Murray's marriage are a sobering reminder that domestic violence is no respecter of position, status or wealth. After Mrs Murray was photographed with bruises earlier this week, many publications have speculated on whether she may have received them at the hands of her husband, whose drug abuse and adultery have been the subject of gleeful tabloid commentary. While this newspaper abhors sensational coverage of MPs' personal lives, the story has served to move domestic violence up the public agenda._

_"Two women die at the hands of partners each week in the UK, and many more suffer injuries or face emotional, sexual or financial abuse," Sandra Horley, the CEO of Refuge, told us. "There's a myth that such violence occurs among less wealthy couples, but in fact victims and perpetrators come from all walks of life, and men as well as women can be affected."_

_Mrs Murray is perhaps the most human figure in the Cabinet. Often mocked for her lack of polish, she is more relatable than many of her colleagues. "She's not a typical politician," sources close to the minister told us. "She's an idealist and has no interest in 'playing the game'."_

_Previously an advisor for a housing charity, Mrs Murray is known in her constituency for her hands-on approach. Local resident Jean Brown told us "When I was having problems with my housing benefit she rang up the Council and sorted it all out for me. She really cares. It's terribly sad to think she’s having all these problems at home. You don't think about it happening to people like her."_

_Ms Horley explained that the consequences of abuse are often social and psychological, as well as physical. "Victims become isolated from their friends and families. They can be manipulated into feeling dependent on their abuser, and even come to believe that they deserve or cause the treatment they receive." It is to be hoped that, regardless of whether speculation about Mrs Murray's marriage is unfounded, the news coverages raises awareness of the plight of the thousands of women and men in the UK living in fear in their own homes._

* * *

Malcolm’s morning doesn’t get any better. His breakfast of croissant and Steve Fleming had done very little to cure his hangover, which had made his three-way meeting with Tom and Steve even more unbearable. Especially when the twat had announced that he and Tom were off on a whistlestop EU tour in order to try to make Tom look more like a dignified statesman and less like a dour Scot with the interpersonal skills of a pineapple. Then he’d had to visit Dan Miller and impress upon him the dire consequences of him going through the coup that he has been plotting with mounting indiscretion. Normally administering a verbal castration improves Malcolm’s mood, but Miller’s such a robot that he had barely reacted to Malcolm’s threats – just given him his trademark smarmy smile and questioned whether there would be a place for Malcolm in the new order.He decides to go to the superministry and savage some easier prey. Sport and Creative Industries has been leaking like a blocked toilet recently and there’s a junior minister there who can be relied upon to crap himself whenever Malcolm gets within a hundred feet of him.

He doesn't get as far as Sport and Creative Industries. Nicola ambushes him on the third floor landing. She comes at him so hard and so fast that he’s caught totally by surprise. One minute he’s reaching in his pocket to answer his Blackberry, the next he’s being shoved against the banister with such force that he has to grab at the hand rail to stop himself from falling over. He turns to see who’s had the gall to assault him and freezes at the sight of her expression. Even during her most poisonous rants at James he’s never seen her look this angry. It makes their conversation earlier that morning look positively cosy by comparison.

“You promised! You _promised_ you wouldn't let them run with this story. It's fucking _everywhere_ Malcolm! How could you do this to us!?” she demands. “Women’s Hour has rung to see if I’d like to participate in a phone in about domestic violence. Alcohol Concern want me to front an awareness campaign about the impact of substance abuse on families. My fucking _sister’s_ just called to ask if I want her to drive down from Oxford and help me make a statement to the police! I thought I could trust you. How _dare_ you exploit my personal life like this!?”

She’s been jabbing his chest for emphasis and he’s sure that she’s leaving bruises. He pushes her hand away. “For Christ’s sake Nic’la, calm down.”

“Calm down!? I’m in every _single_ paper! Even the bloody West Yorkshire Post have managed to find an angle. And who tipped off the police about that disgusting nightclub?! Do you really expect me to believe that you had nothing to do with _that_?!”

The aggressive tone of her voice causes his hackles to raise, overpowering the sympathy he might otherwise have felt. “In case yeh hadn’t noticed, there are more important things goin’ on at the moment than the death throes of your marriage – like the fuckin’ _Cabal_ linin’ up to stab Tom in the back! Do yeh really think I’ve got time to waste drummin’ up coverage of that congenitally retarded twat’s adventures?”

She throws her hands up in the air. “ _Nothing_ gets coverage like this without your involvement! I could believe that the Mail had decided to have another go at humiliating me by itself, but not _every_ newspaper on Fleet Street on the same fucking _day_!”

“Just be glad that yer getting' some fuckin' decent press for once,” he tells her with barely contained exasperation. “ _He_ might come across like the Hulk on acid but they fuckin’ _love_ you.”

"Decent press?” she demands incredulously. “I’d rather they were publishing pictures of me in the bloody sack race again than this.”

“Tha’ can be arranged,” he tells her tersely.

Her head snaps up as though she’s had a realisation. “You’re doing this for Tom, aren’t you? You’re throwing me under the bus to distract attention from the fact that he’s electoral poison. I’m just cannon fodder to you – I’m a fucking human shield!”

“Don’t be daft - it’ll take more than your dismal personal life to save Tom from the fuckin’ gallows.”

Nicola glares at him, clearly not believing a word of it. “You selfish, heartless bastard!"

"I thought that was your type!"

She stares at him, open mouthed, and there it is – that shocked, hurt expression. The one he sees whenever he’s failed to live up to her inexplicably high expectations of him. The one that makes him want to crawl into a hole and die.

“How _could_ you?!” she demands, her voice hitting an unpleasantly shrill register. “None of this fucking mess would have happened in the first place if it wasn’t for you! Ella would be in a decent school, Tilly wouldn’t need to see a child psychologist - I wouldn’t be worrying about whether the next bloody _mortgage payment_ is going to go through!”

“Yeh’d still be fuckin’ miserable though!” he retorts.

Glenn Cullen appears behind them and places a hand on Nicola’s shoulder. “Excuse me, Nicola,” he says tentatively.

She spins around to confront him. “What?!”

“You err – you might want to have this conversation somewhere a little more private.”

Malcolm looks over Glenn’s shoulder. The entire staff of DoSAC is watching them with unabashed curiosity. Jesus, not only is he – the bollocker to rule all bollockers – being laid into, but it’s happening in front of an audience. He has to get a grip on this situation before his reputation is shot to pieces.

“The dessicated corn dolly’s got a point,” he tells Nicola. “Let’s talk about this in yer office, yeh?”

Nicola glares at him and stalks towards her office. He’s not sure whether she wants him to follow or is trying to signal that the conversation is over, but he’s certainly not going to let her get away with speaking to him like this. He marches behind her, already planning how to carpet her so thoroughly that she’ll still be picking fibers out of her knees when she’s eighty.

He doesn’t get the chance because Ollie decides that this is the moment to make possibly the most spectacularly ill-judged joke that Malcolm’s ever had the misfortune to witness.

“I don’t like it when Mummy and Daddy fight,” he says in a child's voice as Nicola walks past his desk.

Several people audibly gasp. Behind him Malcolm hears Glenn groan.

Nicola stops in her tracks, and then turns marches over to his desk. "What did you say?"

For a moment Malcolm thinks she’s going to hit him. So must Ollie, because he shrinks back into his chair. “Nicola, I’m sorry. I didn't mean - it was meant to be a joke. Obviously not a very funny—”

“Get out,” her voice is forced through gritted teeth.

“What?” Ollie squeaks.

“You heard me. Pack up your desk toys and your porn collection and get out.”

“Nicola—”

“Now!”

Nobody moves. The silence is palpable. Malcolm feels that he should probably intervene, but he’s not sure that Nicola's capable of listening to reason at this point.

She leans over the desk, glaring at Ollie. “If I’d known what an immature, impertinent, two-faced prick you are I’d never have kept you on in the first place. I want you out of my department!” She reaches forward and sweeps her arm across his desk, sending in tray, papers and pens crashing to the floor. Ollie’s mouth moves wordlessly. Malcolm wouldn’t be surprised if the cretin has pissed himself.

Nicola steps back and looks at the assembled crowd, her expression one of barely contained fury. “And the rest of you get on with some _fucking_ work for once!” Then she’s gone, stalking towards the atrium and descending the stairs in an angry clatter of heels.

The silence drags on, staff exchanging stunned expressions. Eventually Glenn asks tentatively “Should I go after her?”

Malcolm shakes his head. “Not if yeh want to keep yer balls in yer scrotum.” He raises his voice to address the shocked gathering. “You heard the lady – do some fuckin’ work!”

The DoSAC team return to their desks in a hum of shaken conversation. Malcolm stands for a moment, surveying the mess on the floor around Ollie’s desk. He’s shocked by the violence of her meltdown and royally pissed off at being shouted at like a fucking schoolboy. But Christ alive, he thinks to himself, Nicola had been _magnificent_.


	4. These uncomfortable court shoes are not made for walking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a bit of a short chapter. It was originally part one of a chapter but it got so long that I've split it in two - the next part will follow in the next few days.

There’s a level of dramatic exit that it’s not possible to come back from. If she hadn’t reached it when she nearly pushed Malcolm off a third-floor landing or screamed at him in the atrium of an open plan building – where every underemployed civil servant and C list minister inside could hear them – she’d definitely reached it when she’d trashed Ollie’s desk and summarily dismissed him. So when she realises, less than two flights of stairs into her petulant storming out, that she doesn’t have her handbag or phone with her, it’s too late to turn around and fetch them.

Residual anger and fear of photographers propel her about half a mile from DoSAC before she runs out of steam. She comes to a halt in the middle of the pavement. A group of Japanese tourists on a guided tour navigate respectfully around her, eyeing her with polite curiosity.

She draws small solace from the fact that their guide doesn’t build her into his spiel. _And this wild haired woman trying not to cry is a minor cabinet minister whose contribution to British democracy won’t even be a footnote in history, but from whose inability to speak coherent English in public and disastrous marriage the celebrated British gutter press are currently generating hundreds of column inches_. Instead the guide points out an obscure architectural feature on the second floor of the building they are standing next to. His clients reverently take photographs and ask him to repeat the spelling of the architect’s name.

Wishing that she’d at least had the presence of mind to change into more comfortable shoes before she’d gone postal, Nicola leans against a shop window and assesses her options. She can’t go back to DoSAC. Even if Malcolm isn’t there waiting to rip her scalp off with his teeth, she can’t face having to walk past her staff to get to her office. Glenn being awkwardly supportive, Terri trying to dispense relationship advice and Ollie – if he’s still there – glowering at her like a stroppy teenager. But without her phone or her purse she also has no way of getting anywhere else. She can’t get a taxi or call Magda for a lift home. She can’t even sit in a coffee shop for a few hours until the office is empty and then go back to collect her belongings. She’s marooned herself in Central London. _Well done Nicola. Another disaster entirely of your own making_.

If she stays where she is she’ll probably end up lying on the pavement and crying, so she orients herself more-or-less northwards and starts shuffling. It’s about six miles home – mostly uphill in her horribly painful shoes. It’ll take a few hours and then, she promises herself, she can crack open a nice cold bottle of Chablis and drink herself into oblivion.

* * *

She’s been walking for nearly an hour – passing out of the city and into the sprawling suburbs – when she becomes aware of a car trailing behind her. She glances back briefly. She’s the only person on this stretch of pavement. Whoever’s in the car, it’s definitely her they’re following. Probably another bloody journalist. Or one of Malcolm’s henchmen waiting to bundle her into the boot and take her to a warehouse to be waterboarded and then dumped in a shallow grave.

She dives into the nearest bus shelter and pretends to be studying the timetable. The car stops and a moment later the door slams. Underneath the back panel of the shelter she sees a pair of men’s shoes walking towards her. She peers around. The street’s quiet but it’s a main road. If she screams, would someone come and help her? The footsteps get closer and she angles her body away. _Please go away please go away pleasegoaway_.

“If yer plannin’ on catchin’ the bus, yeh’ll be needin’ this.”

“Malcolm!” She spins round to see him standing in front of her, holding out her handbag. “What are you doing here?”

“Have yeh lost another pair o’ shoes?” he asks, ignoring her question.

She looks down at her bare feet. “Not lost. I threw them in a bin in Camden.” The shoes were ripping her feet to pieces every bit as badly as the pavement, but with the added disadvantage of forcing her to walk on tiptoe with her toes wedged into an unfeasibly small point.

Malcolm smirks at her, and she imagines just how flustered and ridiculous she must look. “Need a lift?”

She glances past him to where her ministerial car is parked. Elvis is sitting serenely in the driver’s seat, as though tracking his minister to a North London bus shelter is a daily occurrence. “I’m not going back to the office.”

“Too righ’ yer no’! HR ‘ave already had to scramble the lawyers to make sure fuckin’ Funnybones doesn’t sue for unfair dismissal. Yeh’ll bankrupt the Party if yeh carry on like yeh did today.”

“Oh.” She folds her arms across her belly, unable to meet his eyes. “Sorry.”

“Yeh gettin’ in the car then?”

After the way she’d lost it with him earlier, Nicola had assumed that Malcolm had shown up to exact his revenge where there were fewer witnesses. But when she risks a glance up at him, his expression is something that might almost be interpreted as fondness.

She looks from her feet to her car, weighing up the options. She’s still angry at Malcolm, because there’s no way that every paper in the country would have decided to cover the miserable state of her marriage – a story Malcolm had _promised_ he would keep out of the spotlight – on the same day unless he had told them too. But her feet are literally bleeding and she’s still got another hour to walk before she gets home. Can she accept the lift without losing face? Does she actually _have_ any face left to lose?

Malcolm places a hand on her upper arm and tugs her gently towards the car. “Come on, or we’ll be late for yer audition. I’ve put yeh forward for next host of Hell’s Kitchen.”

“Piss off Malcolm.”

“Just get in the fuckin’ car,” he tells her mildly.

The pain of the uneven pavement on her tenderised feet as she hobbles towards the car is enough to overcome the last of her resistance.

* * *

 Malcolm places a call and instructs someone to “napalm the fuckin’ horde like it’s 1969”, from which she infers there is a hack pack outside her house which the Caledonian mafia is in the process of dispersing. She’s relieved when he goes on to glare at his Blackberry and tap aggressively at the keyboard instead of talking to her. It’s much easier to be angry at him for turning her into an object of national pity when he’s not also looking out for her welfare and saving her from being savaged by journalists.

He answers a call just as the car is pulling up outside her house. Between obscenities she picks up something about Geoff Holhurst and a contract killing.

“Thanks for the lift,” she says.

He doesn’t even break off his string of expletives, just grunts and shoves her handbag across the seat towards her. _Tosser_ , she thinks, his dismissiveness inspiring a fresh wave of anger. He’s done what’s required to make sure that she hasn’t messed up whatever media strategy he’s using her as bait for, and now he’s making it quite clear he has no further use for her. She slams the door hard behind her, mentally apologising to Elvis for hurting his beloved car, and marches up the path with as much dignity as she can muster on gravel in bare feet.

It takes a while rooting through her handbag to locate her house key. Eventually she finds it wedged into a half-eaten pack of Sun Maid raisins. Before she can lift it to the keyhole, the door is yanked open.

“For Christ’s sake Nicky, how long does it take to put a bloody key in a lock?”

“James!” With the added height afforded to him by the doorstep she practically has to bend backwards to talk to him. “How did you get in?”

“Take key, insert in lock, turn,” he says, pulling the key out of her hand and demonstrating the action to her. “Josh can do it, so I don’t know why you find it so difficult.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I know. Life would be far too simple if you actually said what you meant. Would you just get in the sodding house before a paparazzo photographs us arguing on the doorstep?” Instead of waiting for her to respond he simply seizes her shoulder and pulls her inside, shutting the door behind them.

“I didn’t expect – how long have you been here?” she says as he leads her into the living room. Judging by the tumbler of whisky on the coffee table and the bottle open beside it he hasn’t just arrived.

“Since I was asked to leave the office because there were journalists trying to break in through the emergency exits.”

“I’m sorry,” she tells him, sinking onto the sofa and almost sighing in relief as the weight is taken off her feet.

“At least here I’m not being gawped at by the world and his aunt,” he tells her bitterly.

She’s spent most of her day being stared at and given pitying looks by everyone she comes across, so she can only imagine the kind of treatment James has been subjected too. From the rigid set of his jaw it’s evident that he’s still annoyed.

“But why did you come here?” she asks.

“Because it’s still _my fucking house_!” She flinches as his temper flares, suddenly wishing she hadn’t sat down at the first available opportunity. “And because we need to talk about the fact that according to today’s papers I’m one step removed from OJ Simpson and you’re the next bloody Princess Di.”

“James, I had nothing to do with that. Do you really think I wanted the papers calling me brave and publishing pictures of me looking like I’d just been strangled?” _You_ had _just been strangled_ , her mind corrects. By the man looming over her right now. She pushes herself to her feet and walks towards the window, putting some distance between them.

“Oh, don’t worry,” scoffs James. “I know you’ve got absolutely no say at all about what they publish. I came to tell you that you can call off your attack dog. If you want a divorce, I’ll co-operate.”

“What?” she asks, wrongfooted by the change of direction.

“Malcolm. I get the point – tell him to stop before he ruins us both.”

“I don’t understand.”

“For God’s sake Nicky!” he says, his mood shifting suddenly to a vicious incredulity that causes her to take a step back. “Do you really need it spelling out?”

The back of her thigh touches the window sill and she presses her palm against it to steady herself. “These articles have nothing to do with you James – not really. It’s all about Tom. Malcolm’s using us as a distraction: to give the papers something else to write about.”

James rolls his eyes. “For God’s sake Nicky, how can you be so oblivious!? If Malcolm needed a decoy I’m sure he has much more exciting things up his sleeve than us. The bastard’s _blackmailing_ me. He’s been turning you against me for months and now he’s trying to ruin me.”

“Blackmail?”

“Yes!

“I don’t understand. How?”

“Jesus Christ,” he says, slapping his forehead. “It’s as bad as talking to Tilly! He’s got information about me,” he explains as though talking one of the children, “and he’s proving how easy it would be for him to make it public.”

“What information? How much more can there be?” None of it makes sense. Malcolm and James have been having conversations behind her back. About her. About her divorce. About yet another thing that James has been keeping from her. When did she become an outsider in her own life?

“Nothing you need to know about,” he tells her tersely. “It doesn’t affect you or the kids.”

“If it affects _you_ it affects us, James!” she exclaims. “It’s _our_ photos that are plastered all over the papers at the moment, not yours. I’m fed up of being sideswiped by your dirty little secrets!”

His expression is tight and closed, the muscles in his jaw clenching. “It doesn’t matter - you can have your divorce, the kids can stay in the house, and it never needs to come out.”

She throws her hands up in the air. “So you’re not being reasonable because you think it’s best thing for the kids – you’re doing it because you don’t have a choice. You don’t give a _shit_ about us, do you?”

She jumps as James bangs his fist against the wall next to her head. “Don’t be so _fucking_ ungrateful!”

She glares at him. She wants to tell him what a selfish prick he is. She wants to rage because he doesn’t love the children the way they deserve. She wants to demand to know whether he’s _ever_ loved her. She wants to pound out all her hurt and frustration against him until he is as battered as she feels. She probably would do all of these things if the doorbell didn’t ring at that moment.

She turns and sees Malcolm on the front door step, watching them through the bay window. He looks livid. Her stomach sinks. Just when she thinks the day can't get any worse, she's proven wrong. _  
_


	5. Gunboat diplomacy

Frankie calls as the car turns into Nicola’s road. “Geoff Holhurst reckons he’s goin’ teh resign,” he says without preamble. “Today.”

“If he thinks that then there’s even less going on in his tiny head than I thought.”

Malcolm’s so focused on finding out what the fuck is going on that he barely registers Nicola getting out of the car. The twat’s given the deputy PM his letter of resignation and now he’s gone to ground. But someone – someone who is almost certainly one of Dan Miller’s people - is arranging a press conference, the location of which will be released fifteen minutes before it goes ahead, at which Geoff will give a statement. A statement that Malcolm’s office has categorically not been involved in preparing.

“Find that snivellin’ little cunt, take him to an out of the way location and tell him that me and my sledgehammer are on the way to help him prep for his fuckin’ press conference,” he instructs.

“Ah’ve go’ people lookin’ for him now but Miller’s lot aren’t makin’ it easy.”

“I don’t care if the Millerbots've got him stashed on the moon! Tell the useless cumsacks that if they don’t find Holhurst, I’ll be comin’ after _them_ with the fuckin’ hammer instead. And it’ll be wrapped in barbed wire and used to conduct a rectal exam.”

He catches a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye and turns towards the house to see what it is. Nicola’s standing in the bay window, her back turned towards the street. Completely fucking untrainable – she should know better than to stand at the window when there could still be hacks about looking for a photo.

“They’re organised bu’ they’re no’ creative,” Frankie tells him. “Angus has a couple o’ leads – places the’ve used before.”

“Tell him to do whatever he has to. Money, sexual favours, Tom’s nuts baked in a samosa - I don’t give a shit.”

There’s another movement at the window. Someone becomes visible over Nicola’s shoulder. James Murray. How did that arsewipe get into the house? Probably while his people have been out searching for Geoff Holhurst, he realises. James’ shoulders are squared and from what Malcolm can see of his expression, it is one of displeasure. He looms over Nicola, boxing her into the window bay. She reaches behind her to grasp the sill. A jolt of concern runs through his stomach.

“Frankie, I’ve got to go,” he says, clawing at the door release. “Call me when yeh’ve found the cranially deficient twat.” He hangs up before Frankie can respond.

He’s almost at the front door when James punches the wall, his fist passing inches away from Nicola’s head. The dull thud is audible even through brick and double glazing. Nicola flinches backwards, her back now pressed up against the glass. Malcolm jams his fist on the doorbell.  

They turn to look at him. When she sees who it is at the door, Nicola’s expression shifts to – of all things – guilt. James looks angry, as usual.

* * *

It’s Nicola that answers the door. “What is it now?” she asks with forced nonchalance, smoothing down her hair with an unsteady hand.

“I need the borrow a cup of sugar,” he says, barging past her and into the living room.

“Malcolm!” Nicola shouts indignantly.

James glowers at him sullenly as he approaches. “Here we go. I might have known you’d show up – you can’t keep away, can you?”

He walks right up to James, getting so far into his personal space that flecks of his saliva land on his face as Malcolm yells “Fuckin' get out!”

“For God's sake, I’m here doing what you _wanted_ ,” James tells him. “Can’t I even end my bloody marriage in peace?”

“Peace!? I just _saw_ yeh nearly punch Nic'la!”

James scoffs. “I did nothing of the sort. I just banged the wall for emphasis! Trust me, brick’s far softer than her head.”

This time it’s Malcolm’s fist, not his forehead, that connects with James’ nose. The crunch and the gush of blood that follows it is just as satisfying though. “How’s that for fuckin’ _emphasis_?”

“Malcolm, stop it!” says Nicola, grabbing his wrist and tugging him away.

“Jesus!” shouts James, cradling his nose. “You’re a bloody animal!”

“I’ve warned yeh before about treatin’ Nic’la with some fuckin’ respect! The next time yeh try and hit anythin’ tha’s no’ yer own fuckin’ reflection, I promise you it'll end with me testifyin' at your trial for tax evasion while wearin’ yer testicles as cufflinks and yer cock as a fuckin’ _tie pin_.”

“Tax evasion? Would one of you just tell me what’s going on?” demands Nicola.

“Robert Maxwell here’s go’ enough undeclared earnin’s squirrelled away in the Isle of Man teh _buy_ the fuckin’ island,” he tells her. “So you’re getting’ a nice civilised divorce or he’s goin’ to be sewin’ mail bags in fuckin’ Belmarsh.”

Nicola turns to James, her hands on her hips. “What’s he talking about?”

“Christ Nicky, this really isn’t the time,” says James, mopping his nose with a wad of tissues. His Saville Row suit and Hermes tie are stained beyond the point of redemption, Malcolm is pleased to note.

“It’s never the time! Don’t put those on the upholstery!” she adds as James makes to discard the most saturated of the tissues on the sofa.

“Would you just help me with this?” he asks, stooping to grab another handful of tissues from the box on the coffee table.

Nicola moves towards him and Malcolm seizes her by the arm to stop her. “No she will fuckin’ not! Sort out yer own mess for once. Or find someone else teh do it. There must be women willin’ to stuff yer nostrils if yeh pay them enough.”

“Are you really just going to let him stand there and give us both orders?” James demands of Nicola.

She glances between them, motionless with indecision. Beneath his hand, the muscles in her arm are tense and trembling. When she gives no answer, James’ face hardens into a resentful frown. “Fine, I’ll go and fix the mess you’ve made myself.” He pauses as he passes and leans in close to her face. “One caveman for another eh Nicky? I hope the two of you make each other fucking miserable.”

“James, we’re not—”

“No’ everythin’s about sex, yeh misshapen bawsack. She wants rid of yeh because yer a selfish cunt!”

James makes a dismissive gesture with his hand. “Save it, I just don’t give a shit any more. You’ll be hearing from my lawyer about my access rights to my son.”

“Son? You’ve got _four_ children, you misogynistic bastard!” Nicola shouts at his retreating back.

Malcolm moves his hand from her arm to rest lightly on her shoulder. “Let the lawyers deal with it, yeah Nic’la?”

The front door slams closed as James leaves. Nicola spins round, knocking his hand away. “And you! You chauvinistic twat!” she jabs his chest with her finger. The spot’s already tender from where she’d done the same thing earlier in the day. He wishes she’d save the low level physical assault for her husband.

“What?!” he demands.

“Blackmailing him behind my back! Feeding me to the press as leverage. What gives you the right to interfere in our lives like that?”

“I was tryin’ teh help!” he says indignantly. “Besides, if there was any more dirt on him Alan Titchmarsh would be diggin’ him up with a fuckin’ spade.”

“That’s not the point Malcolm.”

“Well would yeh just get to the fuckin’ point then?”

“I could have handled it myself,” she tells him. “I’m a grown woman – I can fight my own battles.” He sees her hackles rise when he responds with a snort of laughter. “What’s so funny about that?”

“Nic’la, you’re Chamberlain to tha’ twat’s fuckin’ Hitler. He’s goin’ teh rape and pillage his way through Poland however nicely yeh ask him not to.”

She rolls her eyes. “And who are you in this analogy? Churchill?”

“As if. I’m fuckin’ Monty. With nukes.”

“For God’s sake Malcolm,” she sighs, her entire body seeming to deflate. “I don’t _want_ James and I to spend the next six years bombing the hell out of each! Not everything’s a bloody war. Why can’t you just let me deal with it my own way?”

“The diplomatic solution?” he scoffs.

“Yes! At least it means that the kids won’t end up as collateral damage.”

That – that naïve belief that people will be reasonable and play fairly despite the fact that her entire life to date is testimony to the opposite – is the reason why he has chosen to get involved in this battle. “He’ll fuck yeh over, Nic’la!” he tells her impatiently. “Just like he always does! He’s a selfish cunt who doesn’t give a shit about hurtin’ yeh to get his own way. And you’ve already been hurt enough,” he adds more softly. “So would yeh just shut up for once and let me help you?”

She stares at him in surprise for a moment, then breaks his gaze, worrying the scar on her temple with her fingers. When she lifts her head again her expression is closed, but her voice is soft. “I don’t know whether to punch you or hug you.”

“I’d rather yeh didn't  touch me at all,” he tells her, rubbing the sore patch on his chest.

They’re interrupted by the front door opening. A wave of noise and excitement rolls into the house.

“It's my go choosing the TV. Sarah Jane Adventures is nearly on!”

“You can’t watch TV until you’ve finished your homework.”

“He doesn’t have any homework Tils, he’s only five.”

"I'm nearly six!"

“We should make a cake for Mum, she’s going to be really upset tonight.” This suggestion, Malcolm notes with surprise, comes from Ella. Maybe it really was that school that had turned her into a tweenage terrorist.

“Why will she be upset? Is it because Katie turned all the sheets pink?”

“Don’t tell her about that – I’ll fix it before she has a chance to find out.”

“I can draw her a picture to cheer her up. Of her fighting the aliens in Downing Street with Mr Tucker.”

Nicola stands rooted to the spot, apparently not sure whether to reveal her presence to her offspring. The question becomes redundant when Katie appears in the living room doorway. “Mum, why are you back so early?” She looks from Nicola to Malcolm and back, her brow furrowed. “Has something happened?”

“Mummy!” yells Josh, bounding into the room and throwing his arms around Nicola’s waist. Tilly follows at a more sedate pace, although if anything her hug is even more fierce.

“Nothing’s happened, I’d just had enough of the office.” Nicola tells her, returning the younger children’s hugs.

Josh looks round and notices Malcolm. “Mr Tucker!” he says, subjecting Malcolm’s lower body to an equally savage embrace. “You’re in our house again. Were UNIT here too? Are you staying for tea?”

“Errr,” he stutters, not sure where to start responding to the barrage of questions.

“It’s my birthday party at the weekend,” Josh continues without drawing breath. “Can you come? Do you think the Doctor will come if you do? Do you like chocolate cake because that’s what I’m having.”

“Mr Tucker’s very busy Josh, he’s probably got other things to do,” Nicola says, gently disentangling Josh from Malcolm, who is standing rigidly, unsure of the appropriate physical response to a five-year-old attaching himself to him like a limpet.

“You could just come for half an hour. That’s all Daddy’s coming for. He’s going to take me to Bovy-ton Tank Museum on Sunday instead. We’re going to drive a tank!”

“Come and take your shoes off, sweetheart,” Nicola tells him, placing a guiding hand on his back. “You’ll get dirt on the carpet.”

“You’re the one staining the carpet, Mum. What’s happened to your feet?” asks Ella.

Malcolm looks down and realises quite what a bad way her barefoot walk across London has left Nicola in. Her tights are shredded, the bridge of one foot is bruised and traces of blood bloom up from the undersides of both feet.

“Oh for heaven’s sake!” says Nicola, noticing the trail of rusty smudges on the carpet that mark the path she’s taken around the room for the first time.

“What’s happened?” asked Katie, looking from Nicola to Malcolm.

“Nothing,” says Nicola. “I took my shoes off because they were killing me and my feet got grazed on the pavement.”

“Why were you walking around outside? It’s the middle of the day, you should be at work.”

Nicola avoids answering Katie’s question by nudging Josh. “Come on monster, let’s go and get ourselves cleaned up.”

“But I’m doing an invitation for Mr Tucker,” Josh protests as Nicola guides him towards the hall.

Katie shuts the living room door quietly behind Nicola. “What’s going on?” she asks Malcolm. 

Tilly sidles up to Malcolm and slips her hand into his. He looks down at her in surprise. “Did someone try to hurt Mummy?” she asks him, her anxious expression a perfect miniature of Nicola’s.

"She’s acting really weird at the moment," Ella tells him. "We think there’s something wrong with her."

He wonders if Nicola is aware of quite how worried her children are about her. He considers whether to play down the day’s events or to be honest about the fact that she's had a total meltdown at work, walked halfway across London barefoot and received an unwanted visit from their father in the few hours since they saw her last.

He’s saved from making a decision when his Blackberry starts vibrating in his pocket. He extracts his hand from Tilly’s and gets out the phone, accepting an incoming call from Frankie. “Have yeh found 'im?” he asks.

“Aye,” says Frankie. “In a workin’ men’s club in Maida Vale.”

“Right, send me the address,” he says, heading towards the hall. “I’m on my way. Don’ let him out of yer sight ‘til I get there.”

“What’s going on?” asks Nicola, appearing in the door of the kitchen with Josh at her side as he heads to the front door.

“I’ve go’ teh go,” Malcolm tells her, unlatching the door.

“Will you come to my party!?” asks Josh urgently.

“Aye, we’ll see,” Malcolm tells him, stepping outside.

“Malcolm!” Nicola stands in the doorway as he heads down the path. “Is this something to do with James?”

“No!” he shouts over his shoulder. “Forget about the twat. Order pizza and watch a film, yeah?” And then he’s in the car, reading out the address to Elvis.


	6. There's no place like home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My profuse apologies for the delay in writing/posting this chapter. I'm working away for the next month so I really will have more time to dedicate to finishing this fic from now on...

“ _Forget about the twat. Order pizza and watch a film, yeah?”_

“What’s a twat?” asks Josh, watching as the ministerial car sets off so quickly that it sends next door’s cat scurrying up a tree in fright.

For God’s sake! It’s bad enough that Ella’s acquired the vocabulary of a merchant seaman, but at least she learnt most of it at school, not at home. “It’s a rude word. Please don’t use it.”

“Is it as rude as cunt?”

“Nearly, it means the same thing.”

“What does cunt mean?”

“Something rude, Josh!” she snaps, pulling the front door closed. “Don’t say it.”

If she’d used the same tone with Tilly she’d be on the verge of tears, but Josh accepts it with equanimity. “I’ll ask Mr Tucker at my party,” he tells her with a nonplussed shrug.

“He’s not coming to your party.” Even if the suggestion hadn’t brought an expression of outright panic to Malcolm’s face, Nicola wouldn’t allow Malcolm anywhere near a room full of over-excited five and six year olds. It’s going to be bad enough getting James through the half hour of cake cutting that he’s deigned to be present for. “Why do you even want him there anyway? You hardly know him.”

Josh cocks his head on one side and screws up his face in exaggerated thought. “Because he has funny walk, and he works with UNIT, and he can make bad Daddy go away, and he says naughty words,” he says, ticking the reasons off on his fingers. It’s not clear from his delivery which of these criteria he gives the highest priority.  

She wonders how concerned she should be that her son has concocted an elaborate fantasy about aliens to make sense of his father’s appalling behaviour. Should she be making an appointment with a psychologist for him too? Is there any of her children whose childhood she hasn’t completely fucked up?

Josh is smiling – the impish grin that everyone says is the spitting image of James’. She tries to twist her own face into a smile but it won’t go. The hand that still lingers on the door handle is shaking. She presses it against her leg to hide the tremor and finds that her leg is shaking too. Shaking so much that she’s struggling to stand. She can feel the blood surging around her body and rushing in her ears.

She doesn’t trust herself to speak. She squeezes Josh’s shoulder briefly as she passes him, making for the stairs as quickly as she can without breaking into a run. Fragments of the girls’ conversation drifts to her from the living room door as she passes: … _bet Dad’s doing his nut…acting really weird… Auntie Jean said…call someone_ …

They’re worried about her. Her children, who _she’s_ supposed to look after, are worrying about _her_. Her breath catches painfully in her chest and blackness closes around the corners of her vision. She finds her bedroom by muscle memory rather than sight and sinks onto the floor.

She squeezes her eyes closed and focuses all her effort on breathing out. Stars flash in front of her eyelids. Her ribs give a few millimetres, then solidify. She hears a low groan that sounds like a wounded animal but can only be coming from her. She leans forward on her hands, trying to open her chest as she gasps for air. Her ribs just keep locking. Her lungs are burning painfully. Tears run hot on her cheeks.

“It’s all right Mum.”

She jolts at the hand on her back. It lifts for a moment, then settles again, rubbing gentle circles. “It’s okay, everything’s all right.” Katie.

Everything’s _not_ all right because she’s falling to pieces in front of her teenage daughter and she can’t do anything about it because she can’t even fucking _breathe_.

“Shhh,” Katie coos, still rubbing her back.

She focuses on the area that Katie’s touching, trying to relax the muscles. “That’s good, well done,” says Katie encouragingly as her ribs give way.

Nicola releases air from her lungs and takes an uneven, gasping breath. It turns into a sob, releasing a fresh gush of tears.

“It’s okay Mum,” says Katie, moving her arm round Nicola’s shoulder and pulling her sideways into a hug. “I’m here, everything’s going to be fine.”

 _It’s not fine_ , thinks Nicola as she leans into the embrace. She’s been bombarded all day with messages from friends asking why she hadn’t told them things had got so bad with James. She’s destroyed any little respect that her staff might have had for her by having a meltdown of Chernobyl proportions front of the whole office. And then, just to prove that she’s incapable of learning from experience, she’d put herself into a situation with James that she hadn’t even _realised_ had got out of hand until his fist had sailed past her nose - a situation that had played perfectly into Malcolm’s ridiculous avenging angel narrative.

She can’t even keep it together in front of the children, for Christ’s sake! The children who are now splashed all over the papers _despite_ the promise she’d made when she took office that they were off limits. She’s fucked up her life so badly that she can’t imagine a way forward that doesn’t fill her with dread.

“Aunty Jean said to tell you she’ll drive down tonight if you want her to,” says Katie, stroking her hair. “She said you haven’t been answering her calls.”

The last thing she wants is her older, more practical, all together more competent sister parachuting in to mop up her mess. “I don’t need Auntie Jean!” The words come out in a hysterical screech that rather undermines her point.

Katie falls silent. Nicola can’t blame her. Why should a sixteen-year-old know the right thing to say to calm her overwrought mother?

From the doorway Ella says: “If you’re fine then you can come and help us get ready for Josh’s party. I don’t know why you agreed to have it here in the first place: it’s going to be a total ‘mare.”

Nicola wipes her eyes and nose with the back of her hand and looks at Ella. Her posture is cocksure, feet planted and arms akimbo, but there’s a flash of uncertainty in her eyes. She knows her tough love tactic is risky. Tilly and Josh hover behind her, Tilly looking scared and Josh fascinated.

“Ella!” scolds Katie. “Don’t be so harsh.”

Sympathy would push her over the edge just now, but having something practical to focus on she might just be able to work with. Nicola sniffs deeply and nods, seizing the lifeline. “Ella’s right,” she tells the other children. “There’s loads to do. We’ve got to make twenty-five party bags for a start.”

“ _And_ come up with a superhero playlist for the games,” Ella says.

“Enough for musical bumps and musical chairs!” insists Josh. He has very specific ideas about how his birthday party should be, which they have all been subjected to in exhaustive detail for weeks.

“You should probably do the pass the parcel too, Mum,” Katie says, catching on. “Magda doesn’t really get it – remember what happened at Tilly’s party?”

Nicola recalls scenes reminiscent of the Hunger Games as the guests discovered that most of the layers of wrapping didn’t contain prizes.

“It was fine, really,” Tilly insists.

“It was like fucking Lord of the Flies,” says Ella scornfully.

Nicola lets the swearing go on account of the precocious literary reference. “We’d better get on with it,” she says, clambering to her feet – which still feel like tenderised meat. “That’s a lot to get done before the weekend.”

“I’m in charge because it’s my party,” Josh announces.

She catches sight of herself in the mirror – the one that has survived James’ rampage. Her clothes are rumpled, her eyes swollen and her face red and blotchy. She looks an absolute fright. “I’m going to have a quick shower,” she tells them. “Josh, as you’re in charge why don’t you start getting out the things for the party bags? The girls can help you reach them.”

“Okay!” He seizes Ella and Tilly by the hand and tugs dramatically. “Come on!”

Ella grins at her as she allows Josh to drag her towards the stairs. Nicola gives her a conspiratorial wink in response. Katie hovers by her side, looking more uncertain.

“Don’t let him make too much of a mess, will you?” she says to Katie, trying to deflect any more attempts at comfort.

“If it wasn’t for me you’d have hand drawn Superman bed sheets to cheer you up,” Katie tells her wryly.

So that’s how Katie had managed to wreck half the bed-linen: trying to clean up Josh’s well-meaning but ill-judged efforts at boosting her morale. She’s overwhelmed by such a powerful surge of gratitude for these infuriating, considerate, wonderful children that she and James have improbably produced that she’s compelled to move.

She squeezes Katie in a tight hug, planting exaggerated kisses on her cheek. “How did you turn out to be such a good girl?”

“Mum, gross, stop it!” says Katie, disentangling herself. “Don’t be so disgusting!” But she’s laughing as she wipes her cheek.

There’s a crash from downstairs, followed by an anxious wail from Tilly and hysterical laughter from Josh and Ella. They glance at each other.

“I’ll go,” says Katie. “Have a shower, you look like a bag lady.” She turns as she reaches the doorway and gives Nicola a cheeky smile. “As for how I turned out to be so amazing, maybe you’re not as much of a head case as everyone thinks.”

“You can go off people,” Nicola warns her as Katie heads towards the stairs.

When she looks at herself in the mirror again she’s smiling – the first genuine smile she’s seen on her own face in months. Outside of these four walls her life’s still a hot mess that she’d rather stick bamboo pegs under her own fingernails than face. But the prospect of an evening spent with the children that she hasn’t spent nearly enough proper time with lately is enough to distract her from the humiliating articles, her freefalling career and her terminal marriage for a while.

She straightens her back, rolling some of the knotted tension out of her shoulders. She's incredibly lucky, really, she tells herself firmly. At least she has all this to come home to. What must it be like for poor Malcolm going back to an empty house every evening, with nothing but his own angry thoughts for company?

* * *

After reviewing the contents of Malcolm’s dossier on him and being on the receiving end of some rather creative threats, Geoff Holhurst is persuaded to allow the Communications department to make some last-minute changes to his press announcement.

“I’ve asked you here today to lay to rest once and for all the groundless rumours that I am seeking to launch a leadership race,” he announces to the assembled fourth estate from the stage of Maida Vale Working Men’s Club. “Our country is facing the most challenging economic conditions in a generation. The British people are looking to their Government for strong leadership that transcends personality or ego. The Prime Minister is the right person to lead the Government in this task. I respectfully ask that you direct your attention towards the steps he is taking to manage the present situation, rather than seeking to undermine his leadership with untrue stories of my dissent.”

The shock on the hacks’ faces confirms that they had been briefed for a resignation speech. A couple of the print journalists are already tapping away at their laptops, frantically redrafting half-written articles. At the back of the room Malcolm sees a pack of junior Millerites reaching for their mobiles in panic. He smirks to himself. He hopes Dan’s motherboard is short circuiting as he watches: that’ll teach the smug android to think he can outwit Malcolm Tucker.

He doesn’t feel the thrill that such a victory would normally awaken in him though. Even as Geoff is being ushered into a car by a gang of Millerites, who are presumably taking him to have his memory banks wiped and operating system rebooted at Miller HQ, the most he can summon is a weak sense of schadenfreude. Mostly he just feels burnt out.

He accepts a few slaps on the back and crows of congratulation from the Caledonian mafia before escaping to the pristine sanctuary of Elvis’ car. He doesn’t really want to go back to his house, but he has nowhere else to go. He’s not desperate enough to sleep in his office just yet, and he hardly has an address book full of friends willing to open their homes to him. Even if he did, he’s too much of a miserable bastard tonight to impose himself on someone.

Instead he bids Elvis goodnight and lets himself into the house. As he opens the door he’s greeted with a musty smell. His usual standards of housekeeping have slipped recently. Dirty crockery is stacked in the sink and he has to rinse out a glass in order to pour himself a drink from the two-thirds empty bottle of Scotch standing lidless on the kitchen counter.

The only food in the fridge is a stale block of cheddar and some heavily sprouted potatoes. He throws both in the bin and orders a takeaway instead, sitting down to watch the coverage of Geoff’s non-resignation while he waits. Paxman is grilling a bewildered Millerite on Newsnight, while on Sky News JB’s trying to imply that a cabinet minister endorsing the Prime Minister signals a government teetering on the precipice of collapse. They’ve all been completely sideswiped by Geoff’s abrupt about turn. For a few moments at least, he’s won them some breathing space.

He sinks back into the cushions and rests his eyes. He’s so profoundly tired that he’s struggling to ground himself in time. It’s barely possible to recall what’s happened in the last twenty-four hours, let alone what day of the week it is. The day started with a hangover, he recalls with effort. A hangover worsened by a morning of being goaded by Steve Fleming. Then Geoff Holhurst coming within a hair’s breadth of toppling the Government. And there was DoSAC too – Nicola Murray losing her shit spectacularly before her boorish twat of a husband nearly trashed her Farrow & Ball living room. Even by his standards it’s been an eventful day. Perhaps it’s understandable that he feels as though he’s been hit by a freight train.

He stops channel surfing, settling on Newsnight, and rests the remote on his chest. The flesh is tender and bruised. Nicola had jabbed it, he recalls with effort. Repeatedly – first at the office and then at her house.

He hadn’t expected her to be over the moon at the blackmail tactics he’d used on James, but he hadn’t anticipated that she’d be so upset. The look of betrayal she’d given him had hurt even more than fucking Tom stabbing him in the back with Fleming.

 _It’s for your own good_ , he’d wanted to protest. _I’m doing this to help you_. And seeing fucking Bruce Banner swinging for her in the window had banished any doubt in his mind that he’d done the right thing. What would have happened if he hadn’t been there? Her kids could have walked in on anything. That little scene had proven that Nicola, despite her protestations, can’t handle the manipulative cunt. In the face of all evidence to the contrary she still insists in thinking the best of people, whereas Malcolm long ago stopped expecting anything other than the worst.

The fact that, despite her evident incompetence, she is so unfailingly well-intentioned is one of the things finds so fascinating about her, he’s realised. He vacillates between wanting to disabuse her of her stupid idealism in the most vicious way possible, and wanting to protect the only unsullied thing in the foetid cesspit of Westminster.  

Not that he’ll be in a position to do either for much longer, in all likelihood. He might have stopped Geoff jumping but the Millerites will have other lemmings lined up behind him, and now that Malcolm’s foiled one attempt at a coup they’ll be doubly furtive about it. The Party’s descended into all out civil war and there’s nothing he can do to stop it. He can only try to steer the conflict towards the best possible outcome.

He wishes it wasn’t such a fucking lonely job. And one so doomed to end in disappointment.

* * *

Malcolm doesn’t recognise the number that flashes up on his Blackberry at 2.34am. If he had, he wouldn’t have answered it.

He pushes himself upright and squints against the overhead light. He’d fallen asleep on his sofa, a near-empty bottle of Scotch and a barely touched Indian laid out on the coffee table.

“What?” he demands of whoever’s on the other end of the line. After the 24 hours he’s had, it had better be fucking important.

“Oh dear, did I wake you?”

Fleming.

“Nah, you’ve interrupted my threesome with the Cheeky Girls,” he tells him. “What the fuck do you want?”

 “Tom’s not pleased, Malcolm. Not pleased at all.” He and Tom must be in Brussels by now, on the first stop of their tour. It would explain the poor quality of the phone line, which only serves to accentuate the nasal tone of Steve’s voice.

“Tom hasn’t been pleased since British steel was de-nationalised,” Malcolm tells him with as much nonchalance as he can muster.

“Geoff Holhurst, Malcolm,” Steve says, and he can hear the impatience in his voice. He’s always been too easy to wind up. “He’s not pleased about Geoff Holhurst trying to announce his resignation without even _telling_ Tom about it first.”

“ _‘Tryin’_ being the appropriate term. I don’t know if yeh’ve actually bothered watchin’ the news, but Geoff came out so hard in support of Tom that he practically came in his pants.”

“We’ve barely left the country and you’ve already let the cabal run amok!” Malcolm doesn’t miss the _we_. It’s Tom and Steve now, he’s trying to say, not Tom and Malcolm. Well Fleming can go and fuck himself with the Black Rod.

“If Tom wanted to keep the cabinet together he shouldn’t have _left_ the fuckin’ country in the first place! While you two are swannin’ around Europe suckin’ off heads of states Dan Miller’s makin’ a fuckin’ landgrab.”

“We shan’t be _swanning around Europe_ any longer. You clearly can’t be trusted to mind the shop: we’re flying back tomorrow to take care of things.”

“Take care of things?” scoffs Malcolm. “You parachutin’ in to save the day is what’s started all this in the first place. It makes Tom look fuckin’ desperate. Miller’s smelt blood and he’s throwin’ down the chow. The sharks are already circlin’ and I’m the one standin’ between Tom and the great whites with a fuckin’ harpoon gun.”

“You couldn’t kill mackerel with dynamite. You’re yesterday’s man, Malcolm.”

“If yeh’d’ve been here instead of me today Geoff Holhurst would be plannin’ his next golfin’ holiday right now while Dan Miller prints his fuckin’ leadership manifesto. Yeh don’t have a hope in hell of keepin’ this lot in line. They don’t respect yeh enough to obey yeh.”

“And you really thing people respect you? In the past they might have feared you: now they just pity you. Even your own people are turning against you: I heard you got a dressing down from _Nicola Murray_ today, for goodness’ sake!”

Christ alive, do people really think he’d ever be desperate enough to have Nicola as one of _his_ people? “Yeh’ll discover what fear is if yeh try and cross me. I’m the only thing holding the fuckin’ Party together, and I’ll destroy _anythin’_ that gets in my way.”

“I think you overestimate your powers of persuasion.”

“Tell that to fuckin’ _Geoff_.”

“We’ll be flying back first thing in the morning. Good night Malcolm.”

“Fuck off!”

He throws the Blackberry against the wall and reaches to fill his tumbler.


	7. Things fall apart

_Dear ~~Prime Minister~~ ~~Tom~~ Prime Minister _

_~~It is with great sadness that~~ _ _I am writing to inform you of my resignation from the position of Secretary of State for Social Affairs and Citizenship._

_You will be aware that I have been the target of ~~relentless~~ persistent press ~~harassment~~ ~~mockery~~ interest during my time in office. Of late, this interest has strayed beyond the political ~~and destroyed my marriage and my children’s emotional and financial security~~. In order to protect the privacy of my family, particularly my young children, I see no alternative but to stand down from my ministerial position. _

_It has been an honour to serve in your Cabinet. During my tenure I have worked with ~~talented~~ ~~committed~~ colleagues on a range of policies focused on improving the lives of ordinary men and women in Britain: Healthy Choices, Back on Track and the Fourth Sector initiative, to name but a few. It is my firm ~~belief~~ hope that during ~~whatever time it has left~~ its time in office, this Government will ~~continue to~~ further the causes of equality and social mobility through these and other policies._

_I will continue to serve as Member of Parliament for Leavesden for as long as my constituents wish me to do so._

_I remain your faithful servant,_

_Nicola Murray, MP_

* * *

“Mum.”

Nicola jolts awake, knocking a cold cup of tea and two rugby trophies off the desk as she does so. “What’s wrong? Shit!” she adds, watching helplessly as a river of tea cascades onto the eye-wateringly expensive parquet.

“Nothing,” says Ella, passing her a box of tissues. “Except you being a massive stresshead.”

“I’m not a stresshead,” Nicola tells her, mopping frantically at the tea before it sinks through the varnish and stains the wood.

“Yeah, whatever,” mutters Ella, kneeling down to help her. “What are you doing down here anyway? I thought Dad must have got in.”

Nicola sits back on her heels and looks at her. “Dad?” As far as the children are concerned, James doesn’t come to the house except by prior arrangement. She doesn’t want them to feel as constantly on edge as she does.

“Yeah,” says Ella. “It’s literally the middle of the night. Plus you never usually come in here.”

She glances at her watch. 1.51am. “I needed to use the computer.”

“Yeah, ‘cos computers don’t work during the day.”

“There’s no need to be sarcastic,” she snaps. She hates herself for being so testy. Ella’s started to press her buttons with unerring accuracy recently. “Why are you awake? You should have been asleep ages ago.”

“You can’t sleep in your bed, can you?” asks Ella, as though she hasn't spoken.

“What?”

“You keep getting up in the night and going to sleep on the sofa. And if one of us is away you sleep in our bed.”

She glances away. MI5 should stop wasting money with newspaper ads and start recruiting in schools instead: children notice _everything_. “I couldn’t sleep,” she replies, ignoring Ella's actual question. “So I decided to get up and do some work. God knows there’s enough of it.”

Ella picks up one of the fallen trophies. An arm has snapped off the imitation brass figurine. “Fred here wants you to stop working before he ends up in a wheelchair. He already had cauliflower ear and a bent nose, now he’s armless too.”

Nicola snatches the trophy, replacing it on the desk, and bundles the sodden tissues into the waste paper basket. “Very funny. It’s time to go back to bed Ella - you’ve got to get up in five hours.”

Ella hesitates for a moment, then leans forward and hugs her. “I love you Mum.”

The breath rushes out of her at the unexpected gesture. “I love you too, sweetheart,” she says, finally recovering her wits. She squeezes her tightly.

“Do you want to come and sleep in my bed?”

Nicola stiffens. She imagines going back to her own bed: lying in the dark, fighting back panic as she struggles not to get sucked into memories that are almost impossible to tell from reality. She nods into Ella’s neck. “Yes please,” she whispers.

Ella steps back. “All right, but only if you promise not to say anything about all the dirty plates and cups in my room.”

“Ella! I’ve told you before, you can’t keep dirty crockery in your room! It’ll attract all sorts of—”

Ella holds up a hand to silence her, smiling cheekily. “Uhuh, promise.”

Nicola frowns at her. “You’re an extortionist.”

“I prefer the phrase ‘skilful negotiator’. Now get a move on: you’ve got to get your beauty sleep if you’re going to model your top ten yoga looks for the Sidebar of Shame tomorrow.”

This cheeky, confident girl is such a change from the withdrawn husk Ella had been a few weeks before that, instead of objecting to the many questionable points in this statement, Nicola just nods. She _is_ exhausted. Right now she’d exchange one of her own limbs for a few hours of uninterrupted rest. “Fine. But you take those plates downstairs first thing in the morning.”

“Whatever.”

As she turns out the light, Nicola’s gaze is drawn to the letter lying in the printer tray. She still has to decide what to do with it. Maybe the answer will be clearer after she’s had some sleep.

* * *

His fucking Blackberry is ringing _again_. He rolls off the sofa and blearily fumbles around for it, more preoccupied with shutting off the jarring vibrations than hearing what whoever’s on the other end has to say.

“Mike from Environment’s just resigned.”

Frankie’s words wake him up like an unwelcome dousing with ice water. “Fuck, where? When?” He staggers to his feet, knocking a foil tray of congealed lamb dopiaza onto the floor in the process.

“Emailed the letter to Tom half an hour ago – and posted a copy on his fuckin’ website.”

“Weaselly little cunt,” he curses, glancing at the clock. It’s only 5.43. Normally the shit doesn't start hitting the fan until the Today programme goes on air at 6.

“I’ve go’ the lads spammin’ the site with a DOS attack, bu’ Christ only knows who else he’s told – or’s plannin’ teh tell.”

“Where’s the fuckwit now?” he asks, unbuttoning yesterday’s shirt with his free hand.

“In his car on the way to Whitehall.”

“Righ’, I’m on my way,” Malcolm tells him. “Don’t let the cunt speak to anyone – not even his fuckin’ driver – ‘til I get there.”

“Got it,” Frankie confirms.

“Jesus shitting Christ,” Malcolm mutters, yanking his shirt off and throwing it next to the puddle of ghee and spices currently bonding itself to his handwoven lambswool rug. It’s just one fucking crisis after another.

* * *

“ _Nnooooooooo_!!!!”

The scream is so piercing that Nicola is momentarily disoriented by a burst of tinnitus. Josh presses his hands over his ears with a disapproving frown.

“Tilly _please,_ you have to go to school,” she insists, climbing the stairs towards where Tilly sits on the first-floor landing.

“No!” Tilly shouts. She is gripping the bannisters so tightly that her knuckles are white. “I won’t go. You can’t make me!”

Nicola runs a hand through her hair, drawing a shaky breath. She has a point. Even if she could pry Tilly’s hands open, which is doubtful, there’s no way she can physically force a ten-year-old to go anywhere: she can barely even carry Josh these days.

She glances behind her. Josh, Ella, Katie and Magda stand at the bottom of the stairs, variously modelling annoyance, impatience, boredom, and disdain at Nicola’s abject failure as a parent. No help there then.

She turns back to Tilly. There are wet tear tracks on her face and she is hyperventilating. She wears an expression of wide eyed panic that Nicola is all too familiar with. How many times has she been where Tilly is now – metaphorically at least: clinging to the bannisters, terrified of an imaginary threat that seems utterly real in her own mind? James’ attempts to ‘cure’ her of her claustrophobia by dragging her into confined spaces to ‘confront’ her fears had never worked. Perhaps she needs to try a more sympathetic approach.

“All right,” she says softly, placing a soothing hand on Tilly’s hair. “Just for today, you can stay here.”

“Really?” asks Tilly doubtfully.

“ _Really_?” echoes Ella incredulously.

Magda mumbles something unintelligible and almost certainly derogatory in Polish.

“Why am I the _only_ _one_ who has to go to school?” demands Josh.

“Because you’re my brave boy,” she tells him, walking downstairs to give him a kiss. “And anyway, you like school – you get to see all your friends. Now go on,” she says, shooing him and his oldest sisters towards the door, “or you’ll all be late.”

Only when the door has shut behind them, and the sound of Josh’s indignant complaints receded down the garden path, does Tilly loosen her grip on the bannisters. Nicola goes and sits on the step below her, so that their faces are level. “Now that it’s just us,” she says soothingly, placing her hand on her arm, “why don’t you tell me what this not wanting to go to school is really all about?”

Tilly turns to face her fully. Her face crumples and she dissolves into agonised sobs.

* * *

There’s hardly any traffic as Elvis drives him to the Ministry for Environment and Agriculture. At this time of day, they share the streets with bin men, joggers and shift workers returning home to bed.

Malcolm scans the news sites on his Blackberry. Mike’s resignation doesn’t seem to have got out yet – perhaps the Millerite’s are wary of being made fools of after yesterday - but Glenn Cullen’s been busy. HR had insisted that Nicola's sacking of Ollie wasn’t legally enforceable, so the sly old dog’s leaked the story to every journalist in his little black book instead. Predictably, the coverage doesn’t cast Ollie in the kindest of terms.

**_Unpopular advisor pushes minister too far_ **

_Secretary of State for Social Affairs and Citizenship Nicola Murray delivered an excoriating public reprimand to a special advisor yesterday, according to confidential sources. The normally amiable minister rebuked Oliver Reader, 37, over a joke referencing allegations of domestic violence made against her husband in the national media._

_“Ollie’s not known for his sensitivity, but it was obvious to everyone that he’d crossed a line,” said a source close to the minister. “He’s an arrogant piece of work. I don’t think anyone was too upset to see Nicola tell him a few home truths.”_

_Mr Reader, who was recently accused of plagiarising policy work carried out by further education minister Ben Swain when he was a junior minister at DoSAC, does not appear popular among Party colleagues. “[Ollie Reader]’s everything that’s wrong with modern politics wrapped up in one lanky, narcissistic [parcel],” an anonymous Party colleague told us on a previous occasion. We will monitor with interest how much longer Mr Reader remains on Mrs Murray’s staff._

The warming glow of schadenfreude is abruptly extinguished when the car pulls up outside the Ministry. “No point waitin’,” he tells Elvis with a sigh. “Vivisection’s a lengthy business. Get yerself back teh Yuppieland and coax Glummy Mummy out, eh?”

It takes more effort than it usually does for him to slam the armour-plated door shut. He feels unaccountably weak. It’s tiredness, he reflects darkly. And probably hunger too - most of last night’s dinner is currently eating its way into his hand-woven rug. He’s getting too long in the tooth to deal with this kind of crap.

The outlook grows even more grim when he spies Steve Fleming coming down the corridor from the opposite direction, his entire body bobbing up and down with each over-extended stride. He’s accompanied by a pair of policy advisors so bland that they make Terri Coverly look dynamic.

“Ahahah,” Steve says, positioning himself in front of Mike’s office door. He waves his index finger in front of Malcolm’s face like a metronome. “I don’t think so, Malcolm.”

He suppresses the urge to slap Steve’s hand out of the way. “You and the Horlicks twins here got it covered, have you?” he asks, his tone showing exactly how realistic he considers this scenario.

“Yes, we do,” Steve tells him primly. “Your unique brand of “diplomacy”” – he illustrates the word with air quotes and a sneer – “isn’t required.”

Not this again. “If it wasn’t for my _unique brand of diplomacy_ , Tom’d be announcing a fuckin’ leadership election this mornin’,” Malcolm reminds him.

“If it wasn’t for you, a lot of things would be different,” says Steve. “But we can’t change what’s past. I’m concerned with the present.”

As if. The man’s a seething bundle of resentment: he’s stuffed so tight with it that he’s practically shitting himself. “Aye, then get out of my way and let me get on with my job.”

Steve doesn’t move. “You’re Director of Communications. There is nothing happening here, at this moment in time, that requires your involvement.”

“Nothin'?!" he demands incredulously. "If I don’t nip this fuckin’ pustule in the bud now, my department will be wipin’ fuckin’ pus off yer face for weeks!”

“That analogy doesn’t even make sense! Your services are not required Malcolm – dermatological or otherwise. I suggest you get back to your office and attend to your job. Or better yet, go home and have a shower and a hot meal. You look like a cadaver. More to the point, you smell like one.” He wrinkles his nose in disgust. The beige minions smirk.

Malcolm glares at him. “Fuck off back to yer retirement home. Chair based exercise’ll be startin’ soon.”

He lunges forwards, hoping to intimidate him into stepping aside, but Steve stands firm.

“I’m serious, Malcolm. Leave now or I’ll have security remove you.” Steve nods his head towards something beyond Malcolm’s shoulder.

He turns and sees a uniformed security guard hovering a couple of meters behind him. “Have you lost yer fuckin’ mind?” Malcolm demands. “We’re on the same side!”

“I think you’ll find that there are very few people left on _your_ side. Why don’t you go and devote your energies to maintaining good relations with the handful of people that you haven’t already alienated?”

Malcolm looks from Steve to the security guard and back. It’s clear Steve’s not going to change his mind, and he’s damned if he’s going to be manhandled out of a government building by someone so thick they couldn’t even pass police selection.

“You’ll be crawlin’ teh me before the end of the day _beggin’_ teh make me come until I see fuckin’ _stars_ in exchange for my help,” he warns.

“I’ll take my chances.”

With a growl of frustration, Malcolm turns on his heel and strides back to the entrance. The petty, vindictive bastard! He’s willing to risk this Government and everything they’ve been working towards to settle a personal vendetta. The poisonous, two-faced, officious little reptile!

He squints as the morning sunlight hits his eyes, feeling suddenly lightheaded. His heart is hammering in his chest. He leans against the wall, waiting for the sensation to pass. Jesus wept - he’s got to try and direct government communications without even knowing whether there’s still a Minister of Agriculture and Environment! It’s going to be another fucking shitbath of a day.

He pushes himself back to standing and takes a shaky step forward. If he’s going to get through this, he’ll be needing caffeine in industrial quantities.

* * *

The house is quiet. It’s 8.55 am. The fact that she would rather perform an auto-appendectomy without anaesthetic than set foot in DoSAC makes her less upset than she would otherwise be about how late for work she is.

“Feeling better?”

Tilly nods, not lifting her face from where it is pressed into the lapel of Nicola’s jacket.

“What was all that about before?”

Tilly tightens her grip and mumbles something.

“What’s that?”

“I don't want to leave you.”

Nicola has to consciously stop herself from sighing. They’ve had this conversation a hundred times the last few weeks. “But why, sweetheart? Nothing bad can happen to you at school.”

“Not to me, to you.”

“I’m very safe when I’m at work,” she explains - yet again. “There are security guards and policemen at the office, and when I need to go somewhere Elvis drives me in an armoured car.”

“Something bad happened to you yesterday.”

 _Okay,_ this _is new_. Tilly’s never referred to specifics when she’s been upset before. She tightens her arm around her. “Why do you say that?”

“You came home early, and you had blood on your feet. Then later you were crying and you couldn’t breathe.”

“Tilly, that was…” she grasps for ways to explain her own meltdown the previous day. “I was just tired and upset. There were some things about me and Daddy in the papers that I didn’t like, and I overreacted.”

“Bad things happen to you when you’re with Daddy too,” Tilly says, so quietly that Nicola only just hears her.

She looks down at the little girl in her lap. This is _massive_. Tilly’s never – even obliquely – mentioned the violence that she’d witnessed between her and James before. Nicola rubs her back soothingly as she considers how to answer.

“That’s one of the reasons why Daddy doesn’t live here any more,” she says finally. And then, because Tilly is the child that is most like her in temperament and she’d do _anything_ to prevent her repeating her own mistakes: “You should never let someone hurt you - no matter how much you love them - and Daddy hurt me, so we can’t live together anymore.”

Tilly pushes herself so that she is sitting upright and looks Nicola in the eye. “People hurt you at work too – ever since you got your new job.”

The acuteness of the observation takes her by surprise. Is this another insight that Tilly’s spent the last weeks incubating?  “You're right,” she says, trying to keep the bitterness out of her voice. “What do you think I should do about it?”

“Stop being a Secretary of State,” answers Tilly immediately, a glimmer of hope flickering across her face. “You were happier before: when you were just an MP.”

Happier – that’s a fair description. Christ knows things hadn’t been perfect then, but they had all been happier.

There’s a scrape of a key in the front door. Magda lets herself into the house. “Is me," she says, spotting Nicola and Tilly still where she left them, at the top of the stairs. "I dropped off other children.”

“Thank you.”

“I expect you are wanting me to be working extra hours today.”

“Yes please,” confirms Nicola. “I have to go to work.”

“Tilly is not as naughty as Ella, but still I need extra money for compensate inconvenience to my plans.”

“Of course,” she nods, with a smile that she hopes isn’t too insincere. “It’s very good of you to help at such short notice.”

“Perhaps if you are more strict you do not have such problems,” observes Magda matter-of-factly.

Nicola suspects that if Tilly were Magda’s child, she would have been carried kicking and screaming to the car. But the children get on well with her and heaven knows she needs her organisational abilities, so Nicola tolerates Magda’s low level distain for her.

“I see that Fonzie is waiting outside,” Magda adds when Nicola doesn't reply.

It takes her a moment to make the connection. “It’s Elvis, Magda.”

Magda frowns. “No, Elvis is dead. Who say otherwise is liars.”

Nicola looks around for her mobile, wondering why she hasn’t heard Elvis ringing, and realises that it must be in the handbag that she had optimistically placed by the front door an hour ago. She gives Tilly a kiss and a gentle shove. “Up you get, sweetheart. I’ve got to go to work now.”

Tilly resists for a moment, then slides to her feet. “I’ll be good today,” she promises.

“You help me get house ready for Josh’s party,” Magda instructs, so firmly that Nicola’s relieved to have a reason to be elsewhere.

She checks her makeup and puts on her coat. She's got the front door half way open when she stops. She hesitates, then closes it again, slipping her feet out of her shoes and placing her handbag back down on the mat.

She pads into the study. The letter is still in the printer tray. She picks it up and smooths it out on the desk.

Tilly's words echo in her ears: _Stop being a Secretary of State_. Is it really that simple? She imagines what it would be like not to wake up dreading what the day might bring. She thinks she could handle almost anything that might happen today in exchange for an opportunity to feel like that again. _Almost_ anything.

Her hand shakes as she signs her name with James’ Mont Blanc fountain pen.


	8. The centre cannot hold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've given up on predicting the number of chapters left - this story's already twice as long as I was intending and every time I write a 'short' scene it snowballs. Most of the rest of it is already sketched out in draft though, so the last few chapters should all be up within the next couple of weeks.

Malcolm arrives at the 8.30 meeting a few minutes late, carrying his third extra-shot Americano of the morning. Usually when he walks into a room it falls silent. Today, a group of Treasury press officers continues to gossip about one of their junior ministers’ sudden weight loss as a hush falls over the rest of the crowd. Malcolm directs a full force death glare at them, but none of them is even looking in his direction.

Some of the younger press officers at the front glance nervously between Malcolm and the Treasury group. Angus throws a ball of paper at the ringleader’s head. “Shut up yer fuckin’ noise or I’ll amputate yer bawsacks with mae teeth!”

They look up at him in surprise. The lead Treasury press officer - Ryan’s – lip curls into a smirk as he takes in the sight of the rest of the room watching them. “Oops. Sorry,” he says with a barely-contained snigger.

“No, _we’re_ sorry for interruptin’,” Malcolm tells him. “Please continue – we’re dyin’ teh know more about the gastric band vs affair debate. After all, it’s been a quiet news week and we need somethin’ teh offer the hacks, yeah?”

“You can use all the help you can get,” Ryan mutters, apparently uncowed by his displeasure.

“If I need help from an inbred, overeducated toff I’ll ask the Lord Nicholson,” Malcolm informs him. “Not a fuckin’ mid-tier civil servant whose career highlight is holdin’ the Chancellor’s cock while he takes a wazz.”

Ryan shrugs. “At least the Chancellor still listens to me,” he says, casting a pointed look at his nearest companion. His sidekick lets out a huff of amusement.

He’s so unused to chatback that it takes a moment for Malcolm to register what’s been said. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Angus’ hands clench into fists.

“The Chancellor also listens teh Terry Wogan and the voice of his dead father,” Malcolm tells him witheringly, "so it’s hardly an endorsement." He turns to address the wider room. “Now has anyone else go’ any gossip to share, or can we get on with the business of Government?”

He receives a wave of nods and muted grunts in return – the kind of acquiescence he _expects_ from a roomful of Whitehall bottom feeders. He kicks off the meeting, making a mental note to exact suitably humiliating revenge on Ryan Schroeder. Since when does _anyone_ think he can speak to Malcolm Tucker like that and live?

* * *

It’s nearly 10.30 before he has a chance to get anywhere near his office. He’s so exhausted that he feels as though he’s having an out of body experience. He has the sensation of bobbing somewhere above his body like a helium balloon on a string – not entirely a bad thing given that his body feels as though it has been run over several times with a lawn mower. He’s looking forward to twenty minutes of peace and quiet, in which he can close his eyes and pretend that he's on a desert island being offered cocktails and sexual favours by a mute Fiona Bruce. Or maybe Natasha Kaplinsky...

As he enters Number 10 Glenn Cullen is hovering in the lobby, morosely examining an overstyled flower arrangement. Malcolm pats him on the shoulder as he passes. “Nice work, Deep Throat. I knew there was a pair of balls buried somewhere in that saggy sack.”

Glenn winces as Malcolm’s hand lands on his shoulder. “What’s that?” he asks, his expression dazed.

“Unpopular advisor pushes minister too far,” prompts Malcolm, quoting the Times article.

“I’m not sure what you’re referring to,” Glenn says primly. He’s too old school to ever admit to leaking.

“Course not,” says Malcolm, moving past him towards his office.

Glenn reaches out and grabs Malcolm’s sleeve. “Actually Malcolm, there’s something I should give you a heads up about.”

Malcolm stops. Very slowly he lowers his gaze to where Glenn’s hand rests on his jacket, and then back up at Glenn. He raises his eyebrow.

Glenn hastily removes his hand. “Sorry. I just – it’s rather important.”

“Unless you know about a sniper with a fuckin’ bullet trained on Tom, it’s no’ on my priority list.”

“I—“ Glenn glances around, “look I can’t really go into specifics here but perhaps we could-“ he nods his head towards Malcolm’s office.

What credit the Ollie article had bought Glenn has been used up by the unsolicited physical contact. “Has Glummy Mummy cocked up again?” he asks impatiently.

“No, it’s not that–”

“Then I haven’t go’ time.” If he has to sit and listen to Glenn turn a molehill into a Himalayan mountain range, one of them won’t make it out alive.

“Malcolm, I really think—”

He puts an end to the conversation by walking away. “Send me an email,” he throws over his shoulder as he slams his office door shut behind him.

* * *

The meeting with Tom hadn’t gone well exactly – at several points she’d been convinced that one or both of them was about to cry, be sick or fall over. But it had _gone_. She’d handed him her letter, explained her reasons and – buoyed by the fact that even her ten year-old can see it’s the right decision – stuck to her guns when he’d tried to persuade her to change her mind.

Because he’s fundamentally a nice man - one of several traits that have made him such an easy target for the rampant egos in Westminster - Tom hadn’t been able to bring himself to strong arm her into putting politics ahead of her family. Nicola had left him sitting behind his desk, staring sightlessly at the wall with an expression that suggested he was contemplating suicide. Relief had given her enough immunity against her guilt not to buckle at the sight.

The conversation she’s steeling herself to have with Malcolm is a _completely_ different prospect. She’s developed an inconvenient sense of – not loyalty exactly, but _something_ – that leaves her feeling that she can’t resign without doing Malcolm the courtesy of telling him in person. However much of a chauvinistic twat he’s been recently, she owes him that much.

She'd taken the time to select a particularly nice lunch for him – prosciutto, roasted pepper and mozzarella on olive focaccia with can of San Pellegrino Aranciata. It won’t soften the message, but he’s been looking like a bad Halloween costume recently and if this is the last meal she pushes in his direction, she wants it to be a hearty one.

The paper lunch bag trembles in her hand as she knocks on the door to his office.

“What?!” The solid oak door barely muffles his irritated demand.

She’s tempted to just leave the bag on the floor and run. Can she? Should she just make one last food drop and disappear back into backbench obscuirity? What does she even want to say to him? She’s not sure she can articulate it to herself, let alone to Malcolm. _You’ve made my life a living hell for nine months but thanks for the brief moments between bouts of public humiliation in which you’ve been supportive_. Would he even listen, or would he move straight onto evisceration?

She hesitates too long. The door is yanked open and Malcolm’s angry face appears inches from hers. “What now? Yeh can’t have fucked up again already? Prince Philip goes for longer between gaffes than you.”

“I brought you lunch,” she says, holding up the bag. She cringes at the meek, girlish tone in which the word come out.

He snatches it from her. “That it?”

She shakes her head. “No. There’s something I need to tell you.”

His eyes narrow as he takes in her expression. “I’m no’ gonnae like this, am I?”

“No.”

He holds the door open. “Fuckin’ get inside then.”

She feels even less confident in Malcolm’s office than she does quivering in the corridor – especially when she sees the state it’s in. The blinds have been half lowered, shrouding the room in a murky light that casts sinister shadows across the withered satsuma skins and crumpled newspapers littering the surfaces.

She looks at Malcolm instead. It does nothing at all to reassure her. His face is ashen and waxy, with deep shadows scored under his eyes. She doesn't think she's ever seen him look so bad. She fights the urge to turn and run as he closes the door behind her.

* * *

Nothing good can ever come of that look on Nicola’s face. He glowers at her, as though by sheer force of will he can stop her from vomiting out whatever it is she has come to say.

She places the paper bag containing his lunch on the desk and hovers beside it.

“You goin’ teh sit down?”

She eyes the chair hesitantly. “I’m not sure.”

“It’s not a fuckin’ complicated question, Nic’la! Sit the fuck down!”

She stiffens and squares her shoulders at the impatience in his voice, levelling her gaze at him. “No. Thank you. I don’t have much to say.”

“That’ll be a first,” he mutters, folding his arms and slouching against the wall. She doesn’t say anything else, just stands wringing her hands. “Fuckin’ spit it out then,” he prompts.

She takes a deep breath. “I’m resigning from Cabinet.”

He rolls his eyes. “I’m not in the mood for fuckin’ jokes, Nic’la.”

She looks as though she might throw up on his shoes. “It’s not a joke. I’ve just come from speaking to Tom.”

He straightens up. She’s _serious_. This must have been what Glenn had been trying to warn him about earlier. Does she understand what she’s doing? She’s not endowed with the strongest political instincts. Or common sense. “If you resign now, you’ll start a fuckin’ landslide. The Millerite’s’ll be linin' up behind yeh – Cabinet’ll go down like a row of fuckin’ dominoes!”

“It’s not my problem any more!” There’s an edge of hysteria to her tone. “I can’t keep making my kids suffer the way they have been. I’ve made it clear in my letter that I’m resigning for personal reasons,” she adds, as though this in any way mitigates the damage.

He gapes at her. Has she really learnt _nothing_? “Fer fuck’s sake, Nic’la, have yeh been payin’ _any_ attention!? It doesn’t matter if yer leaving teh join a _convent,_ that’s not how they’ll spin it.”

“Well spin it the other way then!” she tells him. “You _are_ a spin doctor.”

“I’m no’ a fuckin’ miracle worker though! Some things can’t be spun. Come on,” he holds a hand out to her, his tone almost reasonable. “Let’s go an’ nip this in the bud, eh?”

She shakes her head, crossing her arms across her chest. “It’s too late. I’ve already done it – I’ve just come from Tom’s office.”

“Tha’ doesnae mean anythin’. If the press haven’t been briefed, it hasn’t happened. Come on!” When she still refuses to take his hand he seizes her by the arm and tries to march her towards the door.

Nicola wrenches herself free from his grasp. “I’m not going anywhere,” she says, rubbing her arm. “It’s done, I’m not changing my mind.”

There’s that fucking obstinate expression that makes him want to _shake_ her. He doesn't even try to keep a lid on the volume as he yells: “I’ve just spent the last twenty four hours tryin' teh stop Geoff Holhurst and fuckin’ Mike Johnson give the Millerites an in - _for what_?! So you can fuckin' shit all over my hard work. _As usual_. If you resign now, you’re handin’ that fuckin’ android Tom’s arse on a plate! You’ll bring down the _entire government_! Is that what you want, yeh neurotic _frump_? How seriously do yeh think JB’s lot will take social mobility once you’ve made us fuckin’ _unelectable_? They'll be usin' the Fourth Sector Initiative to wrap their fuckin' caviar for the trip to Glynebourne!”

She glares at him as his rant finally draws to an end: the full wattage, Glummy Mummy beam of resentment. “I don’t _care_ any more, Malcolm! Nothing I do at DoSAC makes a difference anyway. I just want out before every single good thing left in my life is ruined.”

She moves to pass him. He plants his hand on the wall, blocking her path to the door. She’s still glaring but she looks less sure of herself.

He takes her in: the frown line scored between her eyebrows, the bushy hair, the indeterminate colour of her irises, the beguilingly pure smell, the fucking _hideous_ purple blouse. He imagines a day when she isn’t hovering in the background, teetering on the verge of fucking up while desperately pretending that she’s in control. His first response isn’t relief at having one less liability to manage, but an overwhelming sense of how lonely it would be without her.

They’re standing close. She’s forced to crane her neck to hold eye contact. “Please don’t try and talk me out of this,” she says, uncertainty starting to creep into her voice.

He seizes on it mercilessly. “Stay.” The word comes out hoarse and breathy.

She shakes her head, expression setting into determination. “I can’t.”

He leans in further, so that their faces are inches apart. “ _Stay_ , Nic’la.”

“Malcolm, please…”

She moves as though to push past him and he’s hit with such a powerful surge of emotion that he feels it in his body. His heart is beating so fast and so irregularly that it feels as though it’s going to burst out of his ribs. He doesn’t want her to leave.

He does the only thing he can think of to stop her: he closes the last few inches between them and plants his lips on hers.

Nicola squeaks in surprise. She places her hand on his chest and presses, trying to put some distance between them. Malcolm responds by weaving a hand into her hair and brushing his tongue against her lips.

It’s insanity. He’s lost his fucking _mind_. He’s kissing _Nicola Murray_. And Christ help him,  he doesn’t want to stop. Because right now, while he’s focusing on the taste of her and the warm softness of her body as he backs her against the wall, he’s not thinking about anything else. He’s not aware of the fact that the Party’s falling apart and Steve Fleming’s out to get him and his body fucking _hates_ him. He’s just aware of _her_. She feels so good - so comforting. He wishes they could stay like this forever.

Nicola’s fingers flex on his chest. She opens her mouth to say something. The words die in her throat as he slips his tongue between her teeth.


	9. Atomised

She’s kissing Malcolm Tucker. She’s. Kissing. Malcolm. Tucker. _Ohmygodohmygodohmygod_. _This is a terrible idea. This is a really,_ really _bad idea_. She tries to tell him so, but he just uses it an opportunity to put his tongue in her mouth. His fingers scrape against her scalp and the breath crumples out of her in a moan.

She’s kissing Malcolm Tucker.

She hasn’t kissed anyone apart from James in years – decades. Kissing Malcolm is completely different. Where James is forceful and demanding, Malcolm is unexpectedly tentative _. Unexpected? Since when have you been expecting to kiss Malcolm???_ Malcolm is wiry, not brawny. Instead of muscle she can feel his ribs shifting under her palm as he breathes, and the pounding of his heart beneath them. He tastes of stale whisky - in this respect at least, they are similar.

 _What are you playing at?!_ the small part of her brain that is still functioning demands. _Stop comparing him to James and_ do _something_!

She opens her mouth wider and leans into the kiss, brushing her tongue against his. In response, Malcolm growls and presses her further into the wall. His free hand moves up to grip her waist and her belly quivers.

_Not that, you fool!_

Right, yes. She brings her other hand up to Malcolm’s chest and pushes. “Malcolm, stop.”

He breaks off the kiss immediately. His face hovers a few inches from hers, her body still pinned gently in place by his. His eyes are closed. His breathing is uneven. So, she realises belatedly, is hers.

 _What now_? This definitely wasn't one of the scenarios that had come up when she'd planned this conversation. She studies the network of veins beneath the translucent skin of Malcolm’s eyelids. It seems impossible that someone so much larger than life – someone capable of making her literally quake with fear – can be so physically fragile.

“Malcolm,” she says hesitantly. “I don’t think—”

He moves his hand from her hair to cup her cheek, placing his thumb over her lips. “Shhh.”

“What are you—”

“Can we no’ just stand here for a while?” he asks quietly, opening his eyes. “This is nice, isn’t it?”

He looks forlorn. Vulnerable. Tenderness flutters in her chest. She wants desperately to make things all right for him. “Yes,” she agrees, nodding. “It’s nice.”

He leans forward and she thinks he’s going to kiss her again, but instead he rests his forehead on hers. She cradles the back of his head, running her fingers through the short hair at the nape of his neck. Malcolm makes a contented purring noise at the contact.

_What are you doing Nicola? This is a terrible idea. On every conceivable level._

She’s not sure what else to do so she just stands, back pressed against the wall, stroking Malcolm’s hair. The gentle pressure of his body against hers is strangely soothing – not at all like her memories of James’ bruising, insistent touch. _Stop comparing him to James_. It feels safe. _Nothing about Malcolm Tucker is safe._

She’s not sure how much time passes but it’s minutes, not seconds. Her breathing settles into a more even rhythm. Malcolm’s doesn’t: it is still ragged and gasping. And she can still feel his heart beating – fast, irregular, almost violent: like it’s trying to jump out of his skin. Is this normal for him? No - it can’t be normal. Even during her most acute panic attacks her heart doesn’t beat like that.

“Malcolm,” she ventures tentatively, “do you feel all right?”

The hand on her waist tenses. “I don’t wan’teh talk about my fuckin’ feelin’s.”

“No - that’s not what I mean. Your heart – it feels – I think there’s something wrong.”

“I don’t have a heart,” he mumbles.

“You do, and it’s hammering like a train.”

“If yeh don’t fuckin’ shut up I’ll kiss yeh again.”

She thinks that it would be quite nice if he kissed her again. _For Christ’s sake Nicola!_ screams the rational part of her brain. _He’s obviously ill. Don’t just stand there fantasising -_ do _something_.

“Malcolm,” she cups his face in her hands and pushes him back so she can look at him, “I really think—”

She’s interrupted by a curt knock. The door opens before either of them can respond. Over Malcolm’s shoulder she sees Steve Fleming standing in the doorway, gaping at them.

 _Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck_. She can only imagine how they appear to him: the two of them pressed up against the wall of Malcolm’s office, his face cupped in her hands, their mouths inches away from each others’. _It’s not what it looks like_ , she wants to say. Except that maybe it is - she still has absolutely no idea what's going on.

She shoves Malcolm away and runs a hand through her hair, which – judging by the way her fingers snag against knots – is looking decidedly rumpled. “Hello Steve,” she says in a bright, stupid, shaky voice that makes her want to slap herself.

Steve glares at them, his fists clenched tightly by his sides. “I should have _bloody_ known,” he says through a jaw clenched tight with anger.

* * *

Nicola shoves him away so abruptly that he staggers back a couple of steps before finding his balance.

The sight of Steve Fleming shatters whatever small measure of peace he’s managed to find in the last few minutes. “Wha’ the fuck do you want?” he demands as he steadies himself.

“All this time, I thought you were finally being shown up for the incompetent fraud that you are," says Steve, his voice high and indignant. "I should have known you had your own agenda. You’ve been behind this all along, haven’t you?”

“Behind what?! Would yeh stop talking in fuckin’ riddles.”

“I'm not a fool, Malcolm! I see what's been happening now. While Tom and I have been distracted worrying about the Millerites, you’ve been plotting your own coup!”

He rubs his head, which has resumed its relentless pounding ache in Steve’s unwelcome presence. “What the fuck are yeh talkin’ about?”

“I couldn’t work out why you’d wasted so much time feeding the press stories about her marriage," he continues, gesturing at Nicola. "But it’s all part of your scheme, isn’t it?” Steve says, as though whatever half-cocked conspiracy theory he’s put two and two together and come up with requires no further explanation.

“What fuckin’ scheme? When do yeh think I’ve go’ _time_ teh scheme? Coverin’ Tom’s arse is a fuckin’ full time job!”

“You've been building public sympathy with all these stories about her violent husband and her dedication to her constituents and her bloody yoga! Biding your time until you can put her forward as a leadership candidate: the grassroots heroine who snatches surprise victory. I have to say Malcolm, even by your standards it's a farfetched plan.”

It’s the most absurd plan Malcolm’s ever heard. Before he can say as much, Nicola pipes up: “That’s not what he was doing Steve. Malcolm was—”

He places a restraining hand on her shoulder. He doesn’t want Fleming to know he’s been blackmailing James Murray, and he certainly doesn’t want Nicola getting drawn into this ridiculous discussion.

It’s too late though, Steve has fixed narrowed eyes on Nicola. “I’ve got to give you credit, Nicky, you’re a dark horse. You actually had me feeling sorry for you. Was it your idea to fake those photographs? Somehow that doesn’t seem like Malcolm’s style.”

“Fake—?” stutters Nicola, taking a moment to catch up with Steve’s train of thought. When she does, he feels her body tense with anger. “Those bruises weren’t fake! This isn’t some game, this is my life! How _dare_ you accuse me of—”

Malcolm cuts her off before she can work herself up. An angry Nicola is an irrational, unpredictable Nicola, and that’s the last thing this situation needs. “Does she look like a political mastermind to you?” he asks Steve, filling his voice with as much derision as he can muster. “She hasn’t even got a clue what’s goin’ on in her own _department_ half the time.”

“Well I didn’t think she was the _brains_  of the outfit,” Steve says, switching his attention back to Malcolm. “Apparently you’ve found other ways to win her loyalty.” His voice drips with insinuation.

“ _She_ is standing right here!” says Nicola indignantly. “And I’ll have you know that I wouldn’t touch _him_ if—”

She cuts herself off so abruptly that Malcolm breaks off from glaring at Steve to look at her. Her face has frozen into a wordless mask of confusion. Shitting Nora, she’s no help at all!

“Listen, yeh paranoid halfwit,” he says, turning back to Steve. “I’ve given the last twenty years of my _life_ to this Party! D’yeh really think I’d risk it all for a neurotic outsider with a husband who makes JR Ewing look like a respectable businessman? I was tryin’ to persuade her not teh resign!”

He gasps as pain shoots up his arm and into his chest. It’s intense – like nothing he’s ever felt before. He rubs his chest, trying to ease the discomfort.

“I think you’d do anything that benefits Malcolm Tucker,” says Steve. “Especially if you get to score a point against me in the process.”

“Don’t flatter yerself.” The pain comes again, violent and burning. He groans and doubles over, clutching at the spot where it's focused.

He feels a hand on his back. “Malcolm?”

“Don’t be childish,” says Steve impatiently.

He tries to straighten up but the pain doesn’t lessen. He has no idea what it feels like to be stabbed, but he imagines it would be something like this.

“Malcolm?” asks Nicola again, putting a concerned arm around his shoulder.

Jesus, he feels as though his chest is being ripped apart from the inside. He groans again as a white lance of pain tears through him.

"Malcolm, what's wrong?"

Another burst of pain follows immediately from the last one. He knows with sudden, blinding clarity that he is about to die.

"Malcolm, can you hear me?" At least there’s someone with him who actually gives a shit, he reflects as Nicola tightens her grip on him.

“For heaven’s sake! He’s putting it on, don’t encourage him.”

If only he could take the fucking Lego policeman out with him.

“Shut up Steve! Malcolm!?” Nicola’s voice is urgent. “Malcolm, come and sit down.”

He feels Nicola try to usher him forward, but his legs won’t cooperate. He’s assaulted by a wave of dizziness. He reaches blindly for her to steady himself. “’m no’ feelin’ very good.”

As if to underline the point, he pitches towards the floor.

* * *

Nicola is dragged forward with Malcolm as his dead weight hits the carpet. The impact knocks the wind out of her and she lies for a moment, pinned down by his arm, trying to catch her breath. It comes back in a rush as she turns her head and sees Malcolm lying face down on the floor, his eyes open and glassy.

“Shit!” She wriggles out from under his arm, scrambling to her knees. “Malcolm?”

“Would you two stop messing around,” says Steve, although he sounds decidedly less sure of himself than before.

“For Christ’s sake, shut up!” she tells him, not looking up from where Malcolm is sprawled on the ground in front of her. She touches his cheek tentatively. It’s clammy and cold beneath her fingers. “Malcolm?”

Nothing. _Of course he’s not answering – he hasn’t just fainted this time! It’s going to take more than a Fruit Shoot to fix this._ Do _something_!

“Go and get help,” she tells Steve, working her hands under Malcolm’s shoulder. It takes all her strength to roll him onto his back. His body flops over with a dull thud, his head listing to one side. His face is grey.

“For fuck’s sake Malcolm!”

She’d taken part in an emergency first aid class a couple of months ago as part of a public health campaign. She’d spent most of the resuscitation demonstration imagining a series of increasingly nightmarish scenarios in which she was required to carry out chest compressions on her lifeless children – culminating in her having to decide which one of them to resuscitate while the others lay dying. Now that she has a definitely not very healthy-looking Malcolm in front of her, she can’t remember any of it.

She looks up at Steve. He stands staring at them, his moustache bobbing up and down as his lips move silently. For Christ’s sake, he’s even more useless than she is.

“Sam!” she shouts – practically screams. “ _Sam_!”

Sam – calm, sweet, efficient Sam – appears at the door connecting her office to Malcolm’s within seconds. Her face creases in concern when she sees Malcolm. “Is he breathing?” she asks.

Finally, a sensible question. There was something about this on the course – ABC. Airway, breathing…something. She leans forward, putting her ear close to Malcolm’s mouth. She can’t hear anything except the buzz of her own blood in her ears. She presses her ear against his chest instead.

It’s still. She can’t feel the heart that was beating so violently against his ribs a few minutes ago either. She looks up at Sam, biting back tears. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Right, I’ll go and get an ambulance.”

 _Don’t leave me,_ she wants to shout as Sam disappears back into her office.

She turns back to Malcolm. She can’t wait for help to arrive, the instructor had been very clear about that. Every minute counts. _Fuck you Malcolm._

She loosens his collar with shaking fingers.  _Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck_. She tips his head back to open his airway. She hadn’t been very sure about this when she’d practiced it on the dummies – she’d been too distracted by images of an unconscious Josh’s lips turning blue. Is that the right angle? She holds his nose and seals her mouth around his, blowing hard. She sees his chest rise as she exhales. Yes, that’s good – the instructor definitely said that was meant to happen. She takes a gulp of air and gives him another breath. The outline of his ribs shows beneath his shirt as his lungs fill. _Stupid, selfish bastard_. Why can’t he just look after himself?

Now chest compressions. It’s not difficult to find Malcolm’s sternum – there’s no meat on him. She positions her hands as she’d been shown, linking her fingers together and shifting her weight over her arms. She makes the mistake of looking at his face. His jaw hangs slackly open. His eyes are wide and fixed on nothing. _He’s dead! Jesus Christ he’s dead!_ She looks hastily away, back to where her hands rest on his chest. _Concentrate, Nicola. For once just stop panicking and concentrate_.

She counts in her head as she carries out the chest compressions. _One. I– two – hate – three – you - four - Malcolm – five – you – six – selfish – seven – infuriating – eight – bastard – nine – don’t – ten – leave – eleven – me – twelve – stay – thirteen – stay – fourteen – stay – fifteen – stay_.

She loses track of how many cycles of breaths and chest compressions she goes through. Her arms are burning and tears are streaming down her face by the time two green clad paramedics kneel down on the opposite side of Malcolm’s body.

“He’s not breathing,” she tells them, still pumping his chest frantically. “His heart’s not beating.”

“It’s okay, you can stop now,” one of them tells her as his colleague fishes in his bag.

No, she can’t stop. If she stops he’ll be dead. Malcolm can’t be dead.

“Mrs Murray.” There’s a hand on her shoulder. “Nicola.” It’s Sam. She’s lost count of how many chest compressions she’s on. Is it thirty yet? It must be thirty by now. She releases her grip and leans forwards to administer another breath. “Nicola, stop!” She pinches Malcolm’s nose. “Don't just stand there, help me get her out of the way,” she hears Sam say.

As she leans forwards to breathe into his mouth, hands fasten themselves around her arms and shoulders. “No!” she cries as she’s lifted backwards. “No! Malcolm!”

“It's all right, we’ll take it from here,” the paramedic tells her reassuringly as he leans over him. And then to Sam: “Best take her somewhere quiet and calm her down."

She shakes her head. _No._ She can’t leave him like this. If he’s going to die, she doesn’t want him to be on his own.

She feels herself being physically lifted to her feet. “Come on Mrs Murray, let’s get you next door.”

“No!” she repeats out loud, twisting round in their arms. Malcom’s limbs extend grey and lifeless from behind the paramedics’ hunched forms. “Malcolm! Malcolm!”

She's carried out of the room, twisting and bucking in protest. A security guard shuts the door between Malcolm’s office and Sam’s, cutting him off from her view. “Malcolm,” she says again, suddenly aware of how sore and hoarse her throat is. “Please don’t die.” Her plea is broken and pathetic. Futile.

“Come and sit down, Mrs Murray.”

 _Come and sit down_. She’d said that to Malcolm just before he collapsed.

She’s guided over to a chair. She sinks down onto it, exhausted and shaky and wired all at once. Her arms are tingling. She can still feel the shape of Malcolm's ribs under her fingertips.

Sam kneels in front of her. “Are you all right?” she asks, her brown eyes wide with concern.

She shakes her head, face crumpling as she bites back tears. How can she possibly be all right? Malcolm’s dying. He's probably already dead. The stupid, selfish bastard's dead and there was nothing she could do.

"You poor thing," says Sam sympathetically, placing a hand on Nicola's shoulder as she hunches foward and cries.


	10. Coalescence

He can’t feel much – which he’s not too upset about because he can see the bruises on his bare chest and they look fucking painful. There’s a dressing too. He peels that back and finds a livid red-brown wound, held together by a row of green stitches.

A cow appears at his bedside and licks the stitches thoughtfully. “S’not fuckin’ grass,” he tells it, pushing its nose away. Its tongue tickles. The cow chews his blanket instead.

He thinks he must be in hospital, because a nurse keeps coming to look at him. “You’ve got four broken ribs,” she tells him cheerfully one time, when he’s prodding his bruises.

“I don’ remember bein’ in a fight.” His mouth feels sluggish. He does remember being shouted at by Steve Fleming, but Terri Coverley probably packs more of a punch than Steve so that can’t have done it.

He’s distracted by a lamb running past the side of the bed. When did they start having animals in hospitals? What happens if it shits on the floor?

“I only shit in the private ward,” the lamb tells him.

Later the consultant comes and says something long winded that involves a lot of Latin. “Don’ bother,” Malcolm slurrs. “Ah’m off mae tits.”

She frowns. She doesn’t look very pleased at the interruption. “We’ll review your medication levels,” she says curtly, before moving away.

“She thinks she’s running the show,” a collie tells him as it crosses the floor to the nurses’ station. “But everyone knows the cats are the ones that really call the shots.”

* * *

He sleeps for a while. When he wakes up he feels a deep ache in his chest and the farm animals are gone.

“You’re looking more alert,” the nurse says the next time she checks on him. “Your friend dropped by and left a card for you. Would you like to see it?”

She brings him an envelope containing a Downing Street Christmas card, emblazoned with a child’s drawing of Father Christmas on the top deck of a Routemaster. It takes a lot of effort to translate the inky symbols into meaning.

_To Malcolm_

_Sorry about the card: you didn’t give me much notice before having a massive heart attack in the middle of the work day. Please be more considerate next time – it took me ages to clear your schedule for the next week._

_Here’s the Times coverage. It’s representative of the rest of the papers. I’m away for the weekend but I’ll come and see you on Monday. Be patient with the hospital staff - you’re a grumpy old bastard at the best of times._

_Sam_

He smiles as he reads. He fucking loves Sam: always so practical. The press cutting takes him even longer to decipher than the card. He has to stop a couple of times to refocus his eyes.

**Spin doctor has heart attack in Downing Street**

_Emergency medical teams were dispatched to Number 10 Downing Street yesterday after Director of Communications Malcolm Tucker collapsed during a meeting. London Ambulance Service confirmed “An emergency call was received from Number 10 Downing Street at 10.57 yesterday. Officers arrived at 11.13 and treated a man in his fifties who had suffered cardiac arrest. Thanks to the efforts of a member of public, who administered emergency first aid at the scene, officers were able to resuscitate the man before transporting him to hospital.”_

_Downing Street confirmed that the emergency first aid was administered by former Secretary of State for Social Affairs and Citizenship, Nicola Murray. “Mrs Murray was a real-life hero,” a Number 10 colleague told us. “Malcolm was in a really bad way. While other people stood around panicking, she raised the alarm and administered CPR. He would be dead if it hadn’t been for her.”_

_Mr Tucker was taken by ambulance to the Royal London Hospital. A spokesperson for the hospital confirmed that he has been admitted to the high dependency unit, where he is receiving treatment for a previously undiagnosed heart condition. Mrs Murray, who stood down from her Cabinet position yesterday due to well-publicised family issues, was not available for comment._

_Fucking hell_ , he thinks as his eyes gratefully give up their efforts at focusing. No wonder he’s feeling a bit sore.

* * *

Without hallucinogenics, hospital is incredibly boring. He tries walking out. When he unhooks himself from the wires, drips and monitors he’s attached to, an alarm goes off. When he tries to stand, he collapses in a dead faint. His ribs are agony and the surgical wound on his chest doesn’t feel too clever, either. He’s got a pacemaker now, apparently. And a rehabilitation schedule. He reluctancy accepts that he’ll be in a hospital bed for a while.

As there’s no mobile phone signal on the ward, he passes the time trying to bribe the nurses to get a message to Frankie. Either the nurses or Frankie prove very resistant to this request. It’s been over twenty-four hours by the time one of the nurses comes to his bedside and says: “You have some visitors – are you up to seeing them?”

“Visitors? Plural?”

She nods, breaking out into a broad smile. “That’s right.”

Have the Caledonian Mafia come en masse? They must have put on their best charm offensive to persuade the staff to let them onto a high dependency ward. “Aye, well send them in.”

He’s bare chested. He tries to tug the sheet over the worst of his bruises and bandages, so that he looks less like an invalid and more like the despotic warmonger the boys know him for.

A waist-high streak of red and blue hurtles into the room. “Mr Tucker!”

It’s Josh Murray. Replete with Superman T-shirt and cape. Malcolm stares at him in surprise. He’s followed a moment later by a harried-looking Nicola, wearing a lime green cardigan and an expression of profound unease.

“I brought you a party bag because you couldn’t come to my party,” says Josh, running up to the bed and dumping a little plastic carrier bag on Malcolm’s stomach. “Mummy said you can’t have cake because you’re sick, but I put some in when she wasn’t looking.” Malcolm flinches at the impact on his tender flesh. A bottle of bubbles rolls out of the bag and onto the blanket.

“Careful Josh,” says Nicola, setting a carrier bag on his nightstand. “Mr Tucker’s not well, don’t bump him.”

“Eww, gross!” says Josh, hauling himself up by the rail so that he can get a better look at Malcolm. His expression is equal parts sympathy and curiosity as he examines his torso. So much for trying to preserve a little dignity. “Did you get in a fight with baddies?” 

Malcolm blinks and tries to summon a response. “Aye, yeh could say tha’.”

“That’s so cool!”

“ _Josh_!” he tries not to laugh at Nicola’s expression of horror.

“What?”

Nicola pulls Josh away from the bed. “It’s not cool when someone’s hurt. Mr Tucker’s been very ill.”

Malcolm winks at him. “S’alrigh’. Yeh should see the other guy – yer Mam gave him a proper beatin’.” Josh’s eyes widen. Nicola glares at Malcolm.

“Woah Mum!”

“It wasn’t exciting Josh,” insists Nicola. “Mr Tucker nearly died.”

“But you saved him?”

Nicola glances between Josh and Malcolm.

“Yeah,” Malcolm confirms. Nicola’s gaze skitters away. “How was yer birthday party?” he asks Josh.

“Wicked! I won musical bumps and Freya Miller was sick and there was nearly a fight.”

“Sounds amazin’.”

“You can come next year,” Josh promises. “I’m going to have a bouncy castle. And instead of-”

“Josh,” Nicola interrupts. “Mr Tucker’s still poorly. You can tell him about your ideas another time. Go and wait with your sisters now.” She nods towards the nurses’ station. Through the glass divide, he sees Katie, Ella and Tilly loitering awkwardly next to the desk.

“Fine,” sighs Josh dramatically, rolling his eyes. “Bye Mr Tucker.”

“Bye. Thanks for the goodie bag.”

Josh slopes off to join his siblings. There’s a moment of silence. Nicola picks up the bottle of bubbles and places it on the bedside cabinet.

“Sounds like the party went well,” Malcolm observes.

“The other parents treated James like a pariah,” she tells him tersely. “One of the other dads threatened to punch him – he said he was intimidating his partner.”

“Sounds about right.”

“He wasn’t _trying_ to be intimidating.”

“He doesn't have teh try - he’s a fuckin’ ape.”

“I’m glad it’s over,” she says, placing the party bag next to the bubbles and starting to straighten up his blankets. “But I think Josh had a good time.”

“He’s going teh be buzzin’ all night,” he reassures her. “Now would yeh stop fidgetin’?” He places a hand over hers to still it where she’s smoothing down the bedding.

Nicola stares down at their joined hands. He waits for her to speak. Pushing Nicola when she’s nervy is never rewarded with coherence - as anyone who has ever had the misfortune to attend one of her press conferences can attest to.

“I’m sorry I didn’t come to visit you before,” she says finally, in a hurried, breathless rush. “You weren’t allowed visitors when you were first admitted and then today’s been manic because of the party and I can’t really stay long because of the kids but I just wanted to come and check to make sure that you’re really okay because I’ve been so worried.” She garbles herself to a standstill.

“Yer my first visitor,” he tells her.

“Oh.” He feels her fingers clutch at the bed sheet beneath his hand. Her jaw clenches. “I thought you were dead, Malcolm,” she blurts out. “I thought I’d killed you.”

So that’s what all the twitchiness is about. The stupid woman. “Nic’la, I’m only _alive_ because you were there teh break my ribs.”

Her eyes widen. “I broke your ribs!?”

“Yeah, while yeh kept off brain death long enough for the paramedics teh restart my heart.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Are you _listenin’_ to a fuckin’ word I’m saying, yeh daft mare?” he demands. “I’d be dead if it wasn’t for you.”

Tears have welled up in her eyes. “You wouldn’t have had a heart attack in the first place if it wasn’t for me – for me resigning.”

He snorts.  “It takes more than that teh cause a heart attack. Turns out my heart was fucked - it could have gone at any time. I’ve go’ a pacemaker now.” It’d felt like the end of the world when she’d told him she was resigning though. He remembers the heat of her body and the taste of her mouth as he’d done the only thing he could think of to fight off the sudden, overwhelming dread at the idea of her walking out of his life. _Don’t leave me_.

She pulls her hand away and wipes her eyes, unable to make eye contact with him.

“I see I didn’t persuade yeh to withdraw yer resignation,” he says, gesturing to the newspaper clipping on his bedside table.

Nicola bites her lip. “No,” she says, shaking her head. “I can’t do it any more. I can do more good as an MP.”

“Yeh were doin’ all righ’.”

“We both know that’s not true.”

He doesn’t reply. She’s right. Nicola had her moments as a minister: there were times when she did all right – well, even, on a few occasions. But on balance, she hadn’t made much of an impact. Not that anyone ever does at DoSAC.

She draws in a deep breath, although bracing herself to say something difficult. “You should think about resigning too, Malcolm. You can't go on like this. Your job’s ruining your health: you have to start taking better care of yourself.”

He waves off her comment, as far as his feeble arm allows. “Mah fuckin’ _heart condition_ was ruinin’ mah health. I’ll be fine now I’ve got this pacemaker.”

She shakes her head. “It’s killing you, Malcolm. It’s not just your heart - you’re stressed, you’re depressed, you don't sleep properly, you don’t eat enough – you can’t live like this. It's not a life.”

He frowns at her. He had really thought she, of all people, would understand. “It’s my _Party_ , Nic’la. I’m no’ just gonnae walk away and let it all fall to pieces.”

“But what you do every day – the manipulation and the coverups and the blackmail – that _isn’t_ the Party. The Party is a group of people working together to achieve a goal: it’s the constituents and the unions and the grass roots activists. It’s about _principles_.” Nicola’s tone is more empassioned and compelling than she’s ever managed during her career as a politician. “Your job is try to stop a group of narcissists and sociopaths from ripping each other apart in public. They’re never going to _be_ what you want them to be, Malcolm. And it’s _not_ worth-” She pauses and wipes her eyes again. “Sorry,” she says when she’s regained her composure. “It’s just that you’re not really a heartless shit, and you deserve better.”

Jesus, she’s really upset. Over _him_. “I don’t know where yeh get this image of me as some kind o’ moral crusader, Nic’la,” he tells her coolly. “Christ, I’m so heartless that they’ve had to put a fucking _machine_ in my chest teh make sure it doesnae stop pumpin’ again. My job is to do the shit that nobody else has to stomach or the balls to do. _Nobody_ else can do what I do as _well_ as I do it, and as long as I draw breath I’m goin’ teh carry on doin’ it. They’ll have teh carry me out of Number 10 in a fuckin’ _box_.”

Anger flashes across Nicola’s face. “They almost _did_! You were dead for _twenty_ minutes. _I_ had to pump oxygen around your clapped out, scrawny body for you! And the _next_ time you miss a meal, or faint, or have a panic attack, or stop fucking _breathing,_ I won’t be there! So you’d better hope that there’s someone else around who gives a shit about whether you live or die!”

He rolls his eyes. “I’m no’ one of yer children Nic’la – I don’t need yeh teh tell me what to do. You just concentrate on sortin’ yer left from yer right – I’ll be fine without yeh.”

Nicola slaps the bedside table. “You’re so fucking pig headed!”

“And you’re a neurotic, interferin’ frump! I’ve been doin’ this for longer than you’ve been bearin’ that coke snortin’ rapist’s children. A few months barely managin’ the least important ministry in Government does _no’_ qualify you to tell me how to live my life!”

She gazes at him, her mouth hanging open and her eyes glinting with pain. She should know him better by now, he tells himself. Why hasn’t she learnt yet?

“Excuse me.” The nurse appears at Nicola’s shoulder. “You can’t argue in here - you’ll disturb the other patients. I’m going to have to ask you to leave, madam.”

Nicola claps her hand over her mouth. “Oh my God," she tells her apologietically, "I’m so sorry – I didn’t think. I’m – I’ll go now. I hope I haven’t - I’m really sorry.”

She gathers up her handbag. He can tell that she’s too flustered to be thinking about anything more than getting off the ward as quickly as possible.

“Bye Nic’la,” he says as she scurries towards the door. He sees Katie hovering on the other side, watching her mother through the glass.

Nicola turns back, her gaze darting between him and the nurse. “Bye. I’m – I’m sorry.” Then she’s gone, the door clicking shut behind her.

The nurse smiles at him. “You’d be surprised how common it is for couples to fight on the ward. It’s the stress.”

“We’re no’ a couple.”

The nurse looks surprised. “Oh. She brought the children – I just assumed…”

Malcolm shakes his head. “Christ no, they're definitely not mine. She's just a colleague. Ex-colleague. She’s the one that did this teh me,” he tells her, gesturing to his bruised ribs.

“In that case,” says the nurse, lifting his arm none-too-gently to inspect his canula, “maybe you should go a little easier on her. You do owe her your life.”

* * *

Because he still has only slightly more stamina than a new-born kitten, Malcolm naps after Nicola has gone. He can tell that his health is improving, because when he wakes up he’s bored. With some difficulty, he reaches up to the bedside cabinet and tugs Josh’s party bag and the carrier bag Nicola had left behind onto the bed. They’ve got to be worth a few minutes’ distraction.

The party bag is like the before picture from a Healthy Choices poster: a thick slice of chocolate cake, a Kinder egg and some mini packs of Haribo, as well as the bottle of bubbles and a home-made superman logo, painstakingly crafted out of layers of coloured felt. He eats the chocolate cake and two of the packs of Haribo, noting with interest the way the readings on the monitor he’s hooked up to rise as he does so.

When he’s finished testing his insulin response, he turns his attention to the carrier bag Nicola had brought. It’s heavy and stuffed full, like a child’s Christmas stocking. He upends it on his lap and sifts through the contents. There’s a full set of toiletries, all brand new. He hasn’t even been able to brush his teeth since he’s been here, and he feels a spike of gratitude at the practicality of it. She’s packed snacks too: a net of satsumas, a packet of oatcakes, and a bottle of orange barley water. At the bottom of the heap is a bundle of magazines. She’s done a good job of guessing what he reads: there are the latest editions of Private Eye, the Economist and New Statesman. There’s also a book. He turns it over and realises that it’s _his_ book – a study of the Stalinist propaganda machine, with a handwritten dedication from the author on the flyleaf. He left it in her hotel room in Leeds, he remembers. That trip was only a few months ago, but it feels like another lifetime.

He places the book down and leans back against the pillows. There aren’t going to be any more trips, or public events to coach her through, or moronic blunders to bollock her for. Nicola’s never going to confide in him again, or ask for his help. Today might have been the last time he’ll ever see her, and he’d shouted at her for trying to look out for him. He sighs. Maybe it’s for the best. He’s no good for Nicola: she’s just started to sort her life out and he’ll only drag her down.

As he cracks open the Kinder egg and starts assembling the toy car in the centre, an unpleasant notion crosses his mind. What if Nicola’s the canary in his coal mine? If even she - the eternal, incorruptible idealist – can’t see a way of redeeming this Government, perhaps it can’t be redeemed. He’s abandoned his marriage, his principles, and nearly his life trying to get the Party into a position where it can achieve something. Maybe it’s time he accepted that it’s a lost cause. Maybe – if he’s truly honest with himself - it always was and he’s just been refusing to admit it.

He throws the car across the room in disgust. Fucking Nicola Murray! Why does she have to ruin _everything_?


	11. To make an end is to make a beginning

Now that she’s on holiday from school, Tilly has insisted on making Nicola a packed lunch to take to work each day. The results are…variable. Today it’s a packet of heart shaped jam sandwiches and some carrot sticks with yoghurt dip – a distinct improvement on yesterday’s soggy tomato pitta bread. At least it’s saving her £5 a day that she can put towards her divorce. She took a hefty salary cut when she walked away from her ministerial job.

She hears footsteps approach down the path and glues her gaze firmly on her lunch box. Seats in St James’ Park are prime real estate on weekday lunchtimes. She’s learnt that if she spreads out her belongings and studiously avoids eye contact, she can deter all but most hardened of potential benchmates.

A coffee cup is thrust into her eyeline. “Is this the Honourable Member for Leavesden’s office?”

Her head shoots up. “Malcolm!” He’s standing in front of her in all his monochrome glory: grey suit, grey shirt, grey tie, grey hair.

“I go by Lazarus these days.”

She snorts. “Dracula might be more appropriate.”

“Obscurity’s done wonders for your sense of humour,” he tells her, handing her the coffee. “Mind if I join you?”

She shuffles sideways on the bench so that he can sit down. “Are you hungry?” she asks, proffering her lunch box.

Malcolm glances down at the packet of sandwiches. “It’s a bit soon for heart jokes, don’t yeh think?”

Her stomach drops through the bench. “Oh shit! No, Malcolm, I’m sorry, it’s not – it’s just Tilly –” She stops herself. He’s laughing at her, the bastard. “Fuck off.”

Malcolm grins and helps himself to a jam sandwich. “Don’t mind if I do.”

He looks a hundred times better than the last time she saw him – slouched in a hospital bed with his chest covered in wires and bruises. He’s recovered a livewire energy that she hasn’t seen in him in months. She tells him as much.

“This pacemaker’s better than fuckin’ coke,” he tells her. “Could’ve saved myself a fortune in my twenties if I’d known.”

“If you’d skimped on the coke in your twenties you probably wouldn’t need the pacemaker,” she tells him sharply. Cocaine use isn’t something she has much sympathy with, given the part it’s played in the disintegration of her marriage.

As though following her train of thought, Malcolm asks “How’s Rugger Bugger?”

“He’s moved in with his new girlfriend. She’s thirty four and works in fashion.” She’d feel sorry for her if the girl wasn’t so insufferably smug.

“Is he behavin’ himself?”

Instinctively her fingers seek out the ridges of scar tissue on her shoulder. “Yes.” Whatever the substance of Malcolm’s blackmail terms, they seem to have made an impression on James. He’s stopped dropping by the house, and his solicitors had sent back only minor amendments on the financial and custody settlement her lawyer had proposed. Without the constant threat of him in the background, her flashbacks have become less frequent and less severe. Sometimes she even manages two or three nights of uninterrupted sleep in a row. The impact on her anxiety levels has been dramatic.

He watches her intently. “You tell me if he starts causin’ trouble,” he says, when it becomes clear she’s not going to elaborate on her answer. “I’ll sort it out.”

“I’m not one of your ministers any more, Malcolm. You don’t need to contain the situation.”

“I’m no’ Director of Communications any more, so it’s no’ my job to contain your shit.”

She spins round to look at him. “You’re not? Since when?”

“About an hour ago.”

“Your meetings?”

He nods in confirmation. “I was handin’ in my resignation. And negotiatin’ a fuckin’ gold plated exit deal.”

She stares at him, trying to imagine Malcolm Tucker as a civilian. It doesn’t compute. She can’t even imagine him without a tie. “What will you do instead?”

He shrugs. “Consultin’, memoires, talk show host. If Piers Morgan can find work then it shouldn’t be too difficult.”

She frowns at him. He’s being entirely too flippant given that a few weeks ago he had been furious at her for even broaching the subject of him resigning.

“Don’t look at me like tha’. You were the one who was tellin’ me I should leave.”

“I know,” she says, “but I didn’t think you’d actually do it. You never usually pay any attention to what I say.

“I do when yer no’ talkin’ rubbish.”

She rolls her eyes but doesn’t take offense. His words are delivered with less venom than they once might have been, and she doesn’t care as much. “Will you miss it?”

“Miss it?” he scoffs. “Like a fuckin’ leaky colostomy bag. It’ll be a relief not to have to wake up to the sound of my fuckin’ Blackberry heralding another incoming barrage of chaos every mornin’.”

He doesn’t look relieved though: he looks bereft. If it’s hard for Nicola to imagine Westminster without Malcolm, it must be even harder for him to imagine Malcolm without Westminster. Briefly and tentatively, as though patting a wild animal, she rests her hand on top of his. “It’s a new beginning. Think of all the possibilities. You could go anywhere – do anything.”

“I’m not some poncy middle class gap year student,” he tells her with a disapproving glare.

She grins at his petulant expression. In some respects, he’s exactly like a stroppy five-year-old. They sit in companionable silence, sipping cappuccino and watching the procession of pigeons and tourists across the park. It’s restful, sitting here together when he isn’t trying to chivvy her into doing something and she isn’t trapped in a spiral of anxiety. She finds her thoughts drifting to the ingredients she needs to pick up for tonight’s dinner on the way home (she travels by bus these days), and the plans she’s made with the children for the weekend. What will Malcolm do with his weekends, she wonders, now that he doesn’t have news to monitor and ad hoc indiscretions to bury? She can’t picture him having a leisurely brunch in the neighbourhood bakery or browsing an antiques market. Dog racing, maybe? Poker? Chess boxing? Nothing seems to fit.

She senses his eyes on her. He’s said something and is waiting for her to answer. “I’m sorry,” she says, a flush of warmth running up her neck, “I was miles away. What did you say?”

“Sam said they had teh drag you off me – when my heart stopped. She said it took two security guards and a police man to carry you out of the room.” His voice is uncharacteristically quiet – which perhaps explains why she hadn’t registered it properly the first time he spoke.

She nods sheepishly. The finer details of that day are a little hazy, but she knows that her feet hadn’t touched the floor at any stage. “I wasn’t very calm by that point.”

He chuckles. “I bet.” He sits silently, playing with the end of his tie. It’s an unusually tentative gesture for Malcolm. She stays quiet, letting him work himself up to whatever it is he wants to say.

“I knew I was goin’ teh die – my brain must have known that what was happenin’ to my body was fuckin’ catastrophic. Do you know what my first thought was, when I realised?”

She tries to imagine what would go through her own mind if she realised that she had a few minutes to live. She’d like to think it would be something about the children – noble, motherly concern about how they could cope without her (which, if she’s brutally honest, is probably rather well). It’s equally possible that it would be something irrational and mundane, such as trying to remember whether she’d put on nice underwear that morning. Mostly, she thinks, she’d be terrified. As for what Malcolm…she shakes her head. “I can’t imagine.”

He turns to look at her. “I remember thinkin’ that I was glad it was you that was with me. Yeh probably wish yeh hadn’t been there but…I remember thinkin’ ‘at least there’s someone here who gives a shit’.”

A hard, painful lump rises in her throat. She grasps his hand reflexively. “When the paramedics came, I – I mean I was totally hysterical by then, I wasn’t thinking clearly – I was in their way. They told me to stop, to step back, but I couldn’t. I didn’t want to leave you. I didn’t want you to be alone.”

“I was right, then,” he says, squeezing her fingers.

She feels a rush of sadness for him. For all that it can be busy and exciting and dramatic, she’s always felt that Malcolm’s life must be very lonely.  “Lots of people care about you, Malcolm. There’s Cecily and your sister, and Sam, and—” she tails off, racking her brains for anyone else she has ever heard display even mildly benevolent sentiments toward him.

He raises a wry eyebrow at her. “Not tha’ many.”

“More than you think,” she tells him firmly. “And there would be more if you didn’t behave like such a selfish twat all the time. Take my kids: for some reason they think you’re brilliant.”

“Weak genes.”

She elbows in the ribs. “Oh, stop being such a tosser,” she tells him, frustrated by the deflection.

He flattens his lips and gives an almost-shrug, and she supposes it’s the closest he’ll ever come to saying sorry. “There’s going to be an election,” he says after a moment. “You plannin’ teh defend yer seat?”

She nods. “What else am I going to do?” Besides, she’s enjoying being ‘just’ an MP again. It’s what she went into politics for in the first place.

“You’ve go’ options, if you want them. You’ve got plenty to offer: CPR skills, nice arse, good kisser.”

She feels the blood rush to her cheeks. “I didn’t think you’d remember.”

“I’m hardly likely teh forget _tha_ ’, am I?”

She shrugs awkwardly. “You did have a heart attack not long afterwards.”

He fixes her with an intense gaze. “You’re not that forgettable, Nic’la.”

She looks away, because she’s squirming like a teenage girl.

Malcolm places his empty coffee cup down on the bench and smooths the creases out of his trouser legs. “I’ve got some time on my hands. Need a campaign manager?”

She can’t help the laugh that this idea prompts. “Malcolm Tucker managing a constituency campaign? That’s like using a crop duster on a rose bush.”

“Well let’s TDT the fuck out of Leavesden. Guaranteed no greenfly left standing.”

He’s grinning. It’s charming, in a wolfish sort of way. She imagines what it would be like to spend the next six weeks being subject to Malcolm’s unique brand of assistance. “It doesn’t pay very well,” she warns him.

He shrugs. “S’alright. The Party’s just given me a massive payoff.”

“And you can’t talk to me like you used to. I won’t have you bawling me out in front of my constituents.”

“See, tha’s exactly the kind of assertiveness the public love in an MP.”

“And you can’t take the piss out of me,” she continues, pushing back memories of some of his more unwelcome interventions during her time in office.

“Course not,” he says. “It’s the campaign manager’s job to make the candidate look good. And I can make you look fuckin’ _amazin’_ , darlin’.”

He can, too. He’s already proven that with his blackmail campaign against James. She weighs up the proposal. There’s a very real possibility that Malcolm Tucker the campaign manager would be even more infuriating, tyrannical and unreasonable than Malcolm Tucker the director of communications. But on the other hand, he’s very good at what he does, and she finds she’s grown rather fond of him in the last year. Despite his anti-social tendencies. And his zero-tolerance approach to any form of weakness.

“I suppose it couldn’t hurt to have an extra pair of hands around. If the worst comes to the worst, you can stuff envelopes and make tea.” She grins at the idea of Malcolm handing round cups of milky tea to the be-cardiganed old ladies and idealistic students that staff her campaigns.

He leans towards her, so that his breath brushes against her ear as he speaks. “My tea will blow your fuckin’ mind.”

He manages to make the words sound filthy. Biting down a giggle, she straightens up and loads her lunch box into her bag. “I'll put it to the constituency office, see what they say.”

Malcolm nods in satisfaction. “Yeh’d better take this then.”

She takes the card he proffers. It’s his personal contact details – mobile phone, email and postal address. It even lists a middle initial: F. Is that a joke, she wonders, or were his parents possessed of remarkable powers of foresight? “I’ll be in touch,” she says, tucking it into her handbag.

“Aye, see yeh around,” he says as she rises to her feet.

“Oh, and Nic’la?” he calls after her as she sets off down the path.

“What?” she asks, turning back to look at him.

“Thank you.”

She blinks in surprise. She doesn’t think she’s ever heard him say those words before – to anyone. “For what?”

He rolls his eyes. “For savin’ my life, yeh retarded excuse for a public representative. Now get back teh work before they take the opportunity teh replace yeh with someone who knows what they’re doing.”

He really is exactly like a five-year-old. “You’re very welcome, Malcolm,” she tells him sincerely. “But if you ever scare me like that again, I’ll kill you myself.”

* * *

He’s still in his pyjamas when the doorbell rings, but it’s only just after 9 am. And it’s a Saturday. And he’s unemployed, so he can do what the fuck he likes. Which has mainly been lounging on the sofa watching daytime TV and wondering what the fuck he’s going to do with the rest of his life.

He does not expect to find Nicola and her two youngest children on the doorstep. They're wearing walking boots and Tilly has a pair of binoculars around her neck. Behind them he can see Ella and Katie watching him from the window of Nicola’s hideous parent wagon.

“Are you lost?” he asks, pulling the door closed a little behind him to stop Nicola seeing the mess of pizza boxes and screwed up newspapers littering his hall.

“No,” she says brightly. “We came to pick you up.”

“Pick me up?” He gives her one of his best frowns, but they’ve never worked as well on Nicola as they do on people possessed of common sense and an instinct for self-preservation.

“We’re going to spend the day in Epping Forest,” she explains, “and I thought you could do with some fresh air.”

“Fresh air?” he scoffs. “I’m from—” he glances at Josh and Tilly and censors what he’d been about to say. “Glasgow,” he continues. “I don’t do trees. I do concrete and air that exceeds EU safe limits for carcinogens.”

“It’s not just trees,” Josh tells him excitedly. “We’re going to learn how to make a camp and light a bonfire.”

“And there’s a bird hide – the kingfishers are there at the moment,” adds Tilly.

“And high wires!” Josh continues.

“A hire ropes course,” Nicola corrects, smoothing a palm over Josh’s hair.

“Mummy doesn’t go on the high wires – she’s too scared. I have to go with Katie.” Of course Nicola’s scared of heights. It wouldn’t surprise him to learn that she’s afraid of Tuesdays, or door handles.

“What else are you going to do?” she asks him. “Sit around all day eating Frazzles and feeling sorry for yourself?”

He glares at her. “Monster Munch actually.”

She waves a dismissive hand. “You can do that later. Come and get some fresh air first.”

“Aye, and build a fu-“

“Malcolm,” she warns.

“Build a fire in the woods?” he corrects himself.

“Yeah,” says Josh, nodding vigorously. “It’ll be great! We can pretend we’re hiding from aliens.”

“We packed satsumas in the picnic,” Tilly tells him. “Mummy says they’re your favourite.”

“Is this what passes for a fun day out in your family?” he asks Nicola.

“What have you got to lose? You might enjoy yourself. When was the last time you actually took part in a leisure activity?”

“I watched Newsnight yesterday.”

She rolls her eyes. “I rest my case.”

Josh seizes his hand, looking up at him with wide eyes that are startlingly like Nicola’s. “Pleeaaase.” He glances at Tilly. She’s biting her lip and watching him apprehensively.

“Do yeh really want me to come?” he asks.

The children nod. “Yes!”

What kind of heartless bastard would he be if he told them to piss off? Besides, as Nicola had pointed out, he’s got nothing else to do except stare at the walls and plot elaborate ways to kill Steve Fleming and make it look like an accident. He sighs. “All right then. Someone’s got to go on the high ropes with yeh, haven’t they?”

“Yay!” says Josh, jumping up and down. Tilly grins.

“Excellent,” says Nicola, clapping her hands together. “You’d better hurry up and change Malcolm, the camp building session starts at 10.30. And it’s probably a good idea to bring a change of clothes – it can get quite muddy.”

As he dresses he wonders how on earth he’s let himself be talked into this. He’s going to a forest craft centre with Nicola Murray and her four children. It’s smug and middle class and wholesome and _rural_ \- everything he detests. It was the kids, he thinks darkly as he slips on his shoes. She’d weaponised them. She’d brought Josh and Tilly to the door because she knew there was no way that even someone as callous as him would want to be responsible for putting a look of disappointment on their hopeful little faces. She might not be the sharpest tool in the box, but she’s got emotional blackmail down to a fine art.

Josh seizes Malcolm’s hand almost before he’s finished locking the front door and leads him towards the car. “You can sit in the back seat with me. It’s like sitting in the boot!”

“I think Mr Tucker would rather sit in the front,” Nicola says hastily.

Yes he would. There’s no way he’s squeezing himself into one of those tiny seats while they drive half way across the North Circular. “Yeh can’t really keep callin’ me Mr Tucker if we’re going to be buildin’ a camp together, can yeh?”

“What should we call you?” asks Tilly.

“My name’s Malcolm.”

“Okay Malcolm,” grins Josh. He clambers into the back of the car, almost kicking Katie – who is sitting in the middle row of seats – in the face in the process.

“Careful Josh,” Nicola cautions. “Do you need help with your seatbelt?”

“No!” he yells, struggling to pull the belt across his body.

A small hand slides into his. He glances down to see Tilly looking up at him shyly.

“I’m glad you’re coming with us, Malcolm.”

“Are yeh?” he asks, not quite able to keep the surprise out of his voice.

She nods. “It’ll be better if you’re there too.”

He doesn’t know how to answer that. He gapes, dumbstruck, as Tilly climbs into the car and Nicola instructs her to help Josh with his seatbelt.

He’s still standing there, not quite sure what to do, when Nicola closes the car door. “Don’t look so surprised,” she says, squeezing his upper arm softly. “Not everyone buys your hard man act.”

“I _am_ a fuckin’ hard man,” he tells her indignantly.

“Of course you are.” Her tone that makes it clear that she is humouring him. “Now come on, get in - we haven’t got all day.”

He sweeps a mess of tissues and cereal bar wrappers off the passenger seat and hopes that Nicola has hand sanitiser and wet wipes somewhere in the oversized bag she lugs around with her. The inside of the car clearly hasn’t seen a cloth or a vacuum cleaner in a long time. Possibly ever.

“Right, come on then, let’s go,” she says with a grin, fastening her seatbelt and turning the key in the ignition. She’s excited – Jesus she’s almost as excited as the kids are. Over a day spent building wigwams and counting wood pigeons. The woman’s…strangely endearing. Although her driving style’s almost as alarming as her dress sense, he discovers when she pulls away from the pavement without checking behind her or indicating. Perhaps he can persuade her to let him drive on the way back.

He glances from Nicola to the kids. Ella looks up from her iPod for long enough to cast him a dazzling grin. He smiles back, trying to make sure that his eyebrows don’t do that scary thing they usually do when he smiles, and then turns to face the road again.

A strange sense of peace settles over him. He realises that for the first time in years – in his life, if he’s truly honest with himself – he’s made a friend. Admittedly a friend who comes with a psychotic ex-husband and four children with an unhealthy love of bushcraft, but everyone has their faults. At least she’s never deliberately wrecked anyone’s career. Or had them evicted. Or planted drugs in their office shortly before a police raid.

“So, tell me about this forestry place,” he says.

Nicola turns to look at him and he makes a grab for the steering wheel. “Jesus Nic’la, keep yer eyes on the road, yeh?”

“Don’t worry,” Katie tells him calmly, “she’s only actually crashed once. And it was just a scratch.”

“Oh, well tha’s all right then.” He’s definitely driving on the way back, he resolves. He settles back in his seat, closing his eyes so that he doesn’t have to witness the unfolding horror of Nicola’s driving, and listens to the Murray family talking over each other as they describe to him the wonders of Epping Forest Outdoor Centre.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who's followed this series. _A lot_ has been going on in my life while I've been writing it, and that's led to some long gaps between updates in this last fic - sorry for that! I hope I've partly redeemed myself by getting that last chapter up fairly quickly!
> 
> I'm amazed that this series has ended up being over 100k words long, because it started life as a single deleted scene from another, unfinished fic labelled as 'comic hostage scenario' in my drafts folder. I'll be revisiting that one next...
> 
> Looking back over what I've written, I'm struck by the fact that it's obviously been serving as an unconscious pressure valve for things going on in my own life! Freud would have a field day. I hope it's been entertaining despite that. Thanks for reading!


End file.
